1 


THE 


FORE  AND  AFT 


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oU«  cV\ 


"Plays  are  put  up  in  packages 

and  sold  at  the  delicatessen  shops" 


THE 

FOOTLIGHTS 

FORE  AND  AFT 

BY 

CHANNING  POLLOCK 


WITH    50  FULL  PAGE   ILLUSTRATIONS   BY 

WARREN   ROCKWELL 


RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

THE  GORHAM  PRESS 
BOSTON 


Copyright  ign    by  Richard  G.  Badgei 


All  Rights  Reserved 


The  articles  that  make  up  this  volume  orig- 
inally appeared,  at  various  times,  in  Collier's 
Weekly,  The  Saturday  Evening  Post,  The  As- 
sociated Sunday  Magazines,  The  Smart  Set, 
Munsey's  Magazine,  Ainslee's  Magazine, 
Smith's  Magazine,  and  The  Green  Book  Album. 
The  author  desires  to  thank  the  editors  of  these 
periodicals  for  permission  to  republish. 


The  Gorham  Press  Boston,  U.  S.  A. 


.     .        .      .     •  i  .      •  • 

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'      •      '       ■     •  ■  .  '  .....  »         .  i 


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TO  THE  LADY 
WHO  GOES  TO  THE  THEATER  WITH  ME 


2^ 

is*.' 


S26 


CONTENTS 

INTRODUCTION 

Wherein,  at  union  rates,  the  author  per- 
forms the  common  but  popular  musi- 
cal feat  known  as  "blowing  one's  own 
horn" 13 

THE  THEATER  AT  A  GLANCE 
Being  a  correspondence  school  education  in 
the  business  of  the  playhouse  that 
should  enable  the  veriest  tyro  to  be- 
come a  Charles  Frohman  or  a  David 
Belasco . . 19 

SOME  PEOPLE  I'VE  LIED  ABOUT 

Being  reminiscences  of  the  author's  nefari- 
ous but  more  or  less  innocuous  career 
as  a  press  agent .  .  . .  ., 48 

THE  WRITING  AND  READING  OF 
PLAYS 

Being  a  discussion  as  to  which  pursuit  is 
the  more  painful,  with  various  enter- 
taining and  instructive  remarks  as  to 
the  method  of  following  both 90 

THE  PERSONALITIES  OF  OUR 
PLAYWRIGHTS 

Being  an  effort  to  outdo  Ernest  Thomp- 
son Seton  and  Charles  G.  D.  Rob- 

7 


CONTENTS 

erts    at    their    own    game— which    is 

speaking  literally    122 

STAGE  STRUCK 

Being  a  diagnosis  of  the  disease,  and  a  de- 
scription of  its  symptoms,  which  has 
the  rare  medical  merit  of  attempting 

a  cure  at  the  same  time . 164 

ON  THE  GREAT  WHITE  WAY 
Being  an  account  of  intrepid  explorations 
in  the  habitat  of  the  creatures  whose 
habits  are  set  forth  in  the  preceding 

chapters 192 

WHA  T  HAPPENS  A  T  REHEARSALS 

Being    something    about    the    process    by 

which  performances  are  got  ready  for 

the   pleasure   of   the   public   and   the 

profit  of  the  ticket  speculators 221 

THE  ART  OF  "GETTING  IT  OVER" 

Being  the  sort  of  title  to  suggest  a  treatise 

on  suicide,  whereas,  in  point  of  fact, 

this  chapter  merely  confides  all  that 

the  author  doesn't  know  about  acting   262 

SOMETHING  ABOUT  FIRST 

NIGHTS 
Wherein  is  shozvn  that  the  opening  of  a 
new  play  is  more  hazardous  than  the 

8 


CONTENTS 

opening  of  a  jack-pot,  and  that  thea- 
trical production  is  a  game  of  chance 
in  comparison  with  which  roulette  and 
rouge-et-noir  are  as  tiddledewinks  or 
old  maid 284 

IN  VAUDEVILLE 

Being  inside  information  regarding  a  kind 
of  entertainment  at  which  one  requires 
intelligence  no  more  than  the  kitchen 
range 316 

WITH  THE  PEOPLE  IN  STOCK 

Concerning  Camille,  ice  cream,  spirituality , 
red  silk  tights,  Blanche  Bates,  Thom- 
as Betterton,  second-hand  plays,  paro- 
chialism, matinee  girls,  Augustin  Daly, 
and  other  interesting  topics.  .  ., 347 

SITTING  IN  JUDGMENT  WITH 
THE  GODS 

Being  an  old  manuscript  with  a  new  pre- 
face— the  former  dealing  with  a  lost 
art,  and  the  latter  subtly  suggesting 

who  lost  it 378 

THE  SMART  SET  ON  THE  STAGE 
Wherein  the  author  considers  comedies  of 
manners,  and  players  who  succeed  illy 
in  living  up  to  them 408 

9 


.» 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Page 

Plays  are  Put  up  in  Packages Frontis 

First  catch  your  play 23 

//  actors  roamed  about  at  will 31 

A  Stalwart  Individual  pushing  a  church 45 

The  guild   of  Annanias 51 

Anna  Held  bathing  in  milk 55 

Sometimes  things  really  do  happen  to  actors.  ...  67 

The  Theatrical  Women's  Parker  Club 79 

It  is  very  difficult  to  identify  a  good  play 103 

A  woman  cut  her  play  in  half 109 

Clyde  Fitch's  ability  to  work 129 

Augustus  Thomas  shouts  instructions 137 

Eugene   Walter  was  lodging  upon  a  park  bench  143 

Margaret  Mayo  built  a  villa 161 

The   malignant  disease 165 

"You're  William  A.  Brady,  ain't  you?" 171 

A  wrinkled  old  lady  confided  her  desire 175 

How  sweet  to  meet  one's  own  image 183 

The  Great  White  Way  is  a  recumbent  letter  I .  .  193 

The  actor  and  the  rest  of  the  world 199 

Allan  Dale  came  three  nights  running 203 

Gets   eighteen    dollars 209 

//  actors  really  "felt  their  parts'' 229 

The  first  time  the  director  has  seen  them 251 

The  interruption  came  on  the  spot 255 

II 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Page 

Matches  that  cannot  be  lit 259 

Ensconced  in  a  swing  and  two  silk  stockings ....    263 
Thought  seems  as  material  a  thing  as  a  handball  267 

Gillette  flicked  the  ashes  from  his  cigar 271 

Lady  Macbeth  swore  that  he  grew  during  the  per- 
formance       281 

A  playwright  whose  stock  has  soared  a  hundred 

points  in  a  single  evening 289 

A  Boston  audience  at  train  time 295 

Trilby   died  in   every   known   way 299 

The  author — as  you  imagine  him,  and  as  he  is.  .  .  .    303 

Venus  rose  from  the  sea 3J9 

Danced  before  a  statue  of  Antony  until  it  bit  her  323 
You  need  bring  to  a  vaudeville  theatre  nothing  but 

the  price  of  admission 327 

Their  agents  search  every  capital  of  Europe.  .  .  .    335 

Known  as  a  stock  company 349 

Master  Betterton  had  his  nerves  shaken 357 

The  actress  giving  time  to  dress-makers 361 

Evening  up  matters  on   his  books 369 

The  great  actors  of  an  earlier  time 385 

A  play  censor  with  a  club 391 

Reputable  scoundrels  kill  by  machinery 399 

Comsteckians  wear  blinders 4°  3 

The  peculiarities  of  royal  love-making 413 

The  lady  may  have  come  to  prepare  a  rarebit .  ...    419 

Why  women  sin 4-25 

//  simply  isn't  done 433 


12 


AN  INTRODUCTION 


Wherein,  at  union  rates,  the  author  performs  the  com- 
mon hut  popular  musical  feat  known  as  "blowing  one's  own 
orn. 


a 


GOOD  wine",  according  to  the  poet, 
"needs  no  bush."  With  the  same 
logic,  one  may  argue  that  a  good 
book  needs  no  introduction  .  .  .  But  then 
— how  be  sure  that  it  is  a  good  book? 

Hallowed  custom  provides  that  every  vol- 
ume of  essays— especially  of  essays  on  the  thea- 
ter— shall  begin  with  a  preface  in  which  some 
celebrated  critic  dilates  upon  the  cleverness  of 
the  author.  However,  celebrated  critics  are  ex- 
pensive, and,  moreover,  no  one  else  seems  to 
know  as  much  about  the  cleverness  of  this  au- 
thor as  does  the  author  himself.  In  conse- 
quence of  which  two  facts,  I  mean  to  write  my 
own  introduction. 

One  obstacle  appears  to  be  well-nigh  insur- 
mountable.    It  will  be  easy  to  inform  you  as  to 

13 


INTRODUCTION 

my  merits  and  my  qualifications,  but  I  don't 
quite  see  how  a  man  can  speak  patronizingly  of 
himself.  And,  of  course,  the  patronizing  tone 
is  absolutely  essential  to  an  introduction.  No- 
body ever  wrote  an  introduction  without  it.  I 
shall  do  my  best,  but  I  hope  you  will  be  lenient 
with  me  in  the  event  of  failure. 

"Of  the  making  of  books  there  is  no  end." 

And,  even  to  the  most  enthusiastic  student  of 
the  stage,  it  must  seem  that  a  sufficiently  large 
number  of  these  books  deal  with  the  theater. 

At  least,  they  deal  with  the  drama — which  is 
slightly  different.  It  is  in  this  difference  that 
one  finds  some  excuse  for  the  appearance  of 
"The  Footlights — Fore  and  Aft."  Here  are 
a  collection  of  papers  in  which  the  reader  finds 
no  keen  analysis  of  plays  and  players;  no  learned 
review  of  the  past  of  the  playhouse,  no  superior 
criticism  of  its  present,  no  hyperbolean  prophecy 
for  its  future.     The  book,  in  fact,  is  unique. 

One  might  wish,  indeed,  that  there  were 
more  substance  to  these  essays,  which  reveal  the 

14 


INTRODUCTION 

impressions  of  a  reporter  rather  than  the  ex- 
cogitations of  a  thinker  or  a  philosopher.  Mr. 
Pollock  severely  lets  alone  the  drama  of  Greece 
and  Rome.  His  field  is  the  drama  of  Forty-sec- 
ond Street  and  Broadway.  He  has  rendered 
unto  Brander  Matthews  the  things  that  are  Bran- 
der  Matthews',  and  unto  William  Winter  the 
things  that  are  William  Winter's. 

"The  Footlights — Fore  and  Aft"  contains 
nothing  that  might  not  have  been  set  down  by 
anyone  with  a  sense  of  humor  and  the  author's 
opportunities  of  observation.  It  is  true  that,  in 
his  case,  these  opportunities  have  been  excep- 
tional. Born  in  1880,  Mr.  Pollock's  contact 
with  the  theater  began  as  early  as  1896,  when 
he  became  dramatic  critic  of  the  The  Washing- 
ton Post.  Subsequently,  he  served  in  the  same 
capacity  with  various  newspapers  and  maga- 
zines, was  reporter  for  a  "trade  journal"  of 
"the  profession",  and  acted,  for  a  considerable 
period,  as  press  agent  and  business  manager. 
The  practical  side  of  play-making  and  play-pro- 
ducing he  has  learned  in  eight  years'  experience 

15 


INTRODUCTION 

as  a  dramatist,  during  which  time  he  has  written 
ten  dramatic  pieces,  among  them  "The  Pit", 
"Clothes",  "The  Secret  Orchard",  "The  Lit- 
tle Gray  Lady",  "In  the  Bishop's  Carriage", 
and  "Such  a  Little  Queen." 

Considering  the  narrow  confines  of  the  world 
he  describes,  its  comparatively  small  population 
and  its  rather  meager  language,  Mr.  Pollock 
should  not  be  blamed  too  much  for  a  certain  same- 
ness throughout  "The  Footlights — Fore  and 
Aft."  There  are  not  more  than  a  dozen  promin- 
ent managers  and  a  score  of  well  known  play- 
wrights in  America;  whoever  elects  to  write  a 
hundred  thousand  words  about  the  theater  must 
choose  between  mentioning  these  names  repeat- 
edly and  inventing  new  ones.  Nor  is  it  possi- 
ble to  avoid  the  recurrence  of  explanations  and 
instances.  You  will  find  something  about  stage 
lighting  in  "The  Theater  at  a  Glance",  because 
it  belongs  there,  and  something  more  about  it 
in  "What  Happens  at  Rehearsals",  because 
much  that  follows  in  this  account  would  not  be 
clear  without   it.      The   author  did   not   flatter 

16 


INTRODUCTION 

himself  that  you  would  carry  his  first  descrip- 
tion with  you  through  a  hundred  pages,  and, 
perhaps,  he  didn't  want  you  to  spoil  a  nice  book 
by  thumbing  back. 

In  articles  written  at  various  times  for  vari- 
ous readers,  there  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that 
he  devised  two  phrases  where  one  would  serve 
or  searched  for  two  examples  where  one  would 
do  the  work.  Undoubtedly,  many  of  these  re- 
iterations were  weeded  out  in  the  course  of  com- 
pilation, and,  as  undoubtedly,  many  of  them  re- 
main. All  collections  of  stories  by  the  same 
author — especially  when  they  treat  of  one  sub- 
ject—are marred  by  similarity.  The  remedy 
for  this  rests  with  the  reader,  who  is  recom- 
mended to  take  such  books  in  small  doses — say, 
one  essay  every  night  at  bedtime. 

Generally  speaking,  the  matter  that  follows 
will  not  be  found  unpalatable.  At  least,  the  au- 
thor gives  us  no  reason  to  suspect  that  he  is 
displeased  with  it  or  with  himself.  "The  capi- 
tal IV,  as  someone  has  said  of  another  series 
of  articles,  "flash  past  like  telegraph  poles  seen 

17 


INTRODUCTION 

from  a  car  window."  Mr.  Pollock  scolds  con- 
siderably, too,  though,  for  the  most  part,  in 
perfect  good  humor.  Indeed,  whatever  their 
faults,  it  must  be  said  that  these  essays  display 
some  wit,  and  a  rather  delightful  lightness  of 
touch  and  brightness  of  manner.  They  pene- 
trate the  recesses  of  the  topic,  giving  an  agreea- 
ble impression  of  confidence,  of  familiarity,  and 
of  authority. 

Books  and  plays  are  judged  by  their  price  and 
pretence.  With  the  price  of  this  book  neither  the 
author  nor  the  prefacer  has  anything  to  do.  It 
pretends  to  very  little,  and,  judged  by  that 
standard,  it  may  be  acquitted. 

Channing  Pollock. 

The  Parsonage,  Shoreham,  L.  I., 
August  25,  191 1. 


18 


THE 

FOOTLIGHTS 

FORE  AND  AFT 
I 

THE  THE  A TER  AT  A  GLANCE 


Being  a  correspondence  school  education  in  the  business 
of  the  playhouse  that  should  enable  the  veriest  tyro  to  be- 
come a  Charles  Frohman  or  a  David  Belasco. 


A  MAN  who  passed  as  the  posses- 
sor of  reasonable  intelligence — he 
"traveled  for"  a  concern  that  man- 
ufactured canning  machinery,  and  his  knowl- 
edge of  tins  was  something  beautiful— once 
said  to  me:  uAre  plays  written  before  they're 
produced?" 

"No,"  I  replied,  indulging  myself  in  a  lit- 
tle sarcasm;  "they're  put  up  in  packages  and 
sold  at  the  delicatessen  shops.  Comedies  cost 
twenty  cents  a  box  and  dramas  from  twenty- 
five  cents  to  half  a  dollar.  It  would  be  a  great 
field  for  you,  old  chap,  if  you  could  induce  a 

19 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE  AND  AFT 
fellow  like  Augustus  Thomas  to  pack  his  plays 


in  cans." 


Even  my  friend  the  "drummer"  saw  through 
that.  I'm  afraid  my  wit  lacks  subtlety.  Still, 
two  or  three  other  people  of  my  acquaintance 
would  have  been  a  bit  uncertain  whether  to  take 
me  seriously  or  not.  Most  laymen,  though 
they  wouldn't  believe  in  the  package  explana- 
tion, cherish  a  vague  idea  that  theatrical  pre- 
sentations are  miracles  brought  into  being  by 
the  tap  of  the  orchestra  conductor's  wand. 
Managers  are  quite  willing  to  foster  this  opin- 
ion, agreeing  with  the  late  Fanny  Davenport, 
who  felt  that  the  charm  of  the  playhouse  lay 
in  its  mystery,  and  that  to  elucidate  would  re- 
sult in  loss  of  patronage.  In  this  verdict  it  is 
impossible  for  me  to  concur.  I  learn  something 
new  about  the  theater  every  day,  and  the  more 
I  learn  the  more  I  love  it.  You  can't  interest 
me  in  a  thing  of  which  I  am  ignorant — at  least, 
not  unless  you  start  to  clear  up  my  ignorance. 

Henry  Arthur  Jones,  writing  about  "The 
Renascence  of  the  English  Drama,"  observes: 

20 


THE  THEATER  AT  A  GLANCE 

"I  wish  every  playgoer  could  know  all  the  tricks 
and  illusions  of  the  stage  from  beginning  to 
end.  I  wish  that  he  could  be  as  learned  in  all 
the  devices  and  scenic  effects  of  the  stage  as  the 
master  carpenter.  .  .  .  Compare  the  noisy, 
ill-judged,  misplaced  applause  of  provincial  au- 
diences with  the  eager,  unerring  enthusiasm  and 
appreciation  of  the  audience  at  a  professional 
matinee,  where,  so  far  as  the  acting  goes,  every- 
one knows  the  precise  means  by  which  an  effect 
is  produced,  and,  therefore,  knows  the  precise 
reward  it  should  receive."  That's  warrant 
enough  for  me. 

The  theater  is  an  extremely  curious  blending 
of  art  and  business.  Its  art  is  lodged  back  of 
the  curtain  line  and  its  business  in  front  of  the 
footlights.  Between  these  two  boundaries  the 
manager  stands  when  he  is  directing  rehearsals, 
and,  since  his  work  is  a  mixture  of  both  things, 
that  four  feet  of  cement  constitutes  a  sort  of  in- 
tellectual no-man's-land.  The  people  of  the 
stage  and  the  people  in  "the  front  of  the  house" 
have  little  in  common,  that  little  being  chiefly 

21 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

a  mutual  feeling  of  contempt  for  each  other. 

You  know  the  recipe  for  cooking  a  rabbit — 
"first  catch  your  rabbit."  The  same  recommen- 
dation applies  in  the  matter  of  producing  a 
play.  Good  plays  are  the  one  thing  in  the 
world,  except  money,  the  demand  for  which 
exceeds  the  supply.  Consequently,  dramatic 
works  cost  a  trifle  more  than  "twenty  cents  a 
box."  Most  managers  think  they  cost  alto- 
gether too  much,  but  there  never  has  been  ad- 
vanced a  completely  satisfactory  reason  why  an 
illiterate  little  comedian  should  be  paid  more 
for  appearing  in  a  piece  that  makes  him  a  suc- 
cess than  the  author  should  be  paid  for  provid- 
ing a  piece  that  all  the  illiterate  little  comedians 
on  earth  couldn't  make  a  success  if  the  vehicle 
itself  weren't  attractive.  .  .  .  Kyrle  Bel- 
lew  in  "The  Thief"  drew  $10,000  a  week;  Kyrle 
Bellew  in  "The  Scandal"  didn't  draw  $4,000; 
that's  the  answer. 

If  you  were  a  manager  and  wanted  a  play  by 

a  well-known  author  you  would  go  to  his  agent 

-Elisabeth  Marbury  or  Alice  Kauser — and  ask 

22 


'First  catch  your  play" 


THE  THEATER  AT  A  GLANCE 

if  he  had  time  to  write  it.  Should  his  reply  be 
in  the  affirmative,  you  probably  would  pay  him 
$250  for  attaching  his  name  to  a  contract  stipu- 
lating that  the  manuscript  must  be  delivered  on 
such  and  such  a  date.  Before  that  time,  he 
would  send  you  a  scenario,  or  brief  synopsis, 
of  his  story.  If  you  accepted  that,  you  would 
give  the  author  another  $250;  if  you  rejected  it, 
all  would  be  over  between  you.  The  acceptance 
of  the  completed  '"script"  would  be  likely  to 
cost  you  an  additional  $500,  and  the  whole  $1,- 
000  would  be  placed  to  your  credit  and  deducted 
from  the  first  royalties  accruing  to  the  drama- 
tist. 

Authors'  royalties  usually  are  on  "a  sliding 
scale."  Such  a  one  as  we  have  in  mind  might 
get  5  per  cent,  of  the  first  $4,000  that  came  into 
the  box  office;  7  per  cent,  of  the  next  $3,000, 
and  10  per  cent,  of  all  in  excess  of  that  total. 
Thus,  the  playwright's  income  from  a  produc- 
tion that  "did  $8,000"  a  week  would  be  $510. 
The  agent  would  take  10  per  cent,  of  this  sum. 
Some  dramatists  receive  better  terms  than  these 

25 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

and  some  get  worse;  I  have  given  the  average. 
It  is  possible  for  an  author  to  profit  by  such  a 
property  as  "The  Lion  and  the  Mouse,"  which 
has  been  acted  pretty  constantly  by  two  or  more 
companies,  to  the  extent  of  a  quarter  of  a  mil- 
lion dollars.  Occasionally,  a  shrewd  manager 
and  an  author  without  experience  or  self-confi- 
dence make  a  deal  by  which  a  play  is  sold  out- 
right.    This  is  an  unpleasant  subject. 

"How  does  the  dramatist  know  the  receipts 
of  his  play?"  you  ask.  From  a  copy  of  the 
statement  by  which  the  manager  knows.  Did 
you  ever  hear  of  the  operation  called  "count- 
ing up?"  About  an  hour  after  the  performance 
begins,  the  affable  young  man  who  takes  your 
money  through  the  box  office  window  counts  the 
tickets  he  has  left,  and  subtracts  the  number  of 
each  kind  from  that  which  he  had  originally. 
The  result  is  the  number  sold.  That  number  is 
written  on  a  report  handed  to  the  manager  of 
the  company  appearing  in  the  theater  by  which 
the  young  man  is  employed.  He  and  the  young 
man  then  count  the  sold  tickets  taken  from  the 

26 


THE  THEATER  AT  A  GLANCE 

boxes  into  which  you  see  them  slipped  when  you 
give  them  to  the  official  at  the  door.  That  result 
should  be  precisely  the  figure  on  the  report.  If 
it  is  greater  the  young  man  pays  for  the  differ- 
ence; if  it  is  less  nothing  is  said,  since  some  peo- 
ple who  bought  tickets  may  have  remained 
away.  The  statement  of  what  has  been  dis- 
posed of,  at  what  price,  and  with  what  total,  is 
then  signed  jointly  by  the  representative  of  the 
house  and  the  representative  of  the  company. 
Each  keeps  a  copy  of  this  statement  and  an  ad- 
ditional copy  is  sent  to  the  agent  of  the  author. 
The  transaction  seems  simple,  but,  if  you  will 
think  the  matter  over,  you  will  see  that  it  is  a 
nearly  perfect  method  of  preventing  dishonesty. 
The  contract  made  between  manager  and  au- 
thor ordinarily  provides  that  a  play  must  be 
performed  before  a  given  date  and  so  many 
times  a  year  thereafter,  in  default  of  which  all 
rights  revert  to  the  dramatist.  One  of  the  first 
requisites  of  a  production  now-a-days  is  scenery. 
Consequently,  supposing  still  that  you  are  the 
manager,  you  turn  over  your  manuscript,  act  by 

27 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS-^FORE   AND  AFT 

act,  to  a  scene  painter,  or  to  a  number  of  scene 
painters,  expressing  your  ideas  on  the  subject, 
if  you  have  any.  TKe  scene  painter  reads  the 
play,  formulates  some  ideas  of  his  own,  famili- 
arizes himself  with  the  time  and  place  treated, 
and  makes  a  model  of  each  setting.  The  model 
is  a  miniature,  usually  on  the  scale  of  an  inch  to 
a  foot,  and  it  incorporates  the  necessaries  de- 
scribed by  the  author  with  the  luxuries  imagined 
by  the  manager.  Moreover,  it  is  as  accurate 
and  beautiful  as  skill  can  make  it.  If  the  pro- 
ducer approves  of  the  model  a  bargain  is  struck, 
a  builder  constructs  the  frame  work  which  is  to 
hold  the  scenery,  the  painter  covers  the  canvas, 
and,  for  a  while,  at  least,  the  matter  of  settings 
is  off  your  mind.  The  setting  of  an  act  may 
cost  $500  and  it  may  cost  $5,000.  Generally, 
it  comes  to  about  $1,000. 

In  a  play  of  modern  life  the  actors  are  sup- 
posed to  furnish  their  own  costumes.  Some- 
times, when  the  dresses  are  to  be  exceptionally 
elaborate,  this  rule  is  varied.  Should  your  prop- 
erty be   a   romantic  drama   or  a   comic  opera, 

28 


THE  THEATER  AT  A  GLANCE 

however,  you  have  a  conference  with  a  costum- 
er.  The  great  producers,  like  the  Shuberts  and 
Klaw  and  Erlanger,  maintain  their  own  estab- 
lishments, but  this  hardly  will  apply  in  your 
case.  Now  you  will  see  costume  plates  instead 
of  scene  models — little  paintings  on  card-board 
that  frequently  are  exhibited  in  front  of  the 
theater  in  which  the  piece  is  running.  These 
once  passed  upon,  the  contract  for  making  the 
clothes  will  be  let.  Naturally,  the  cost  is  gov- 
erned by  the  number  of  persons  to  be  clad  and 
by  the  nature  of  their  garb.  The  gowns  worn  by 
one  woman  in  the  production  of  a  Clyde  Fitch 
society  comedy  came  to  $3,100.  The  costumes 
for  a  comic  opera  may  foot  up  $20,000,  irre- 
spective of  tights,  stockings,  slippers  and  gloves, 
which  principals  and  chorus  girls  are  obliged  to 
find. 

Engaging  a  company  is  a  simple  matter  in 
comparison  to  what  it  used  to  be.  A  few  years 
ago  you  would  have  been  compelled  to  choose 
from  thousands  of  applicants  and  to  make  per- 
sonal  visits   to   an   actors'    agency— say,    Mrs. 

29 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

Packard's  or  Mrs.  Fernandez'.  Now  metro- 
politan casts  are  composed  chiefly  of  well 
known  people.  You  have  seen  these  people  of- 
ten, you  know  what  they  can  do,"  you  select  them 
with  an  eye  to  round  pegs  and  square  holes,  and 
you  write  to  them  or  their  representatives.  In 
a  week  your  cast  is  ready.  Salaries  range  from 
$400  a  week,  paid  to  a  popular  leading  man  or 
woman,  to  $20  a  week,  the  stipend  of  a  player 
of  bits.  Chorus  girls  usually  get  $18,  though 
especially  handsome  "show  girls"  are  worth  as 
much  as  $60.  Your  star  probably  insists  on 
having  from  $300  to  $500,  and  a  percentage  of 
the  profits. 

A  stage  manager  is  the  man  who  does  the 
thinking  for  actors.  He  directs  rehearsals,  de- 
vises "business"  and  effects,  and  often  has  a 
great  deal  more  to  do  with  the  play  than  the  au- 
thor himself.  Any  author  will  tell  you  that  this 
was  true  in  the  case  of  a  failure;  any  stage 
manager  will  tell  you  it  was  true  in  the  case  of 
a  success.  In  all  seriousness,  a  stage  manager 
is    a   mighty   important   individual.      If   actors 

30 


"If  actors  roamed  about  at  will 
you  couldn't  tell  a  first  night 
performance  from  a  football  game" 


THE  THEATER  AT  A  GLANCE 

roamed  about  at  will  in  a  play,  as  most  laymen 
suppose  they  do,  you  couldn't  tell  a  first  night 
performance  from  a  foot-ball  game.  Every  ac- 
tor in  a  piece  knows  just  where  he  must  stand 
when  a  certain  line  is  spoken,  and  when,  how, 
where  and  in  what  manner  he  must  move  to  get 
in  position  for  the  next  line.  Smooth  premieres 
are  not  accidents;  they  are  designs.  Sometimes, 
as  in  the  case  of  David  Belasco,  producers  are 
their  own  stage  managers.  Frequently,  as  with 
Charles  Klein,  authors  stage  their  own  plays. 
Almost  always  they  have  something  to  do  with 
it. 

The  chorus  of  a  musical  comedy  or  a  comic 
opera  rehearses  apart  from  the  principals,  and 
begins  earlier.  Putting  on  a  piece  like  this  is 
more  difficult  than  putting  on  a  legitimate  com- 
edy or  a  drama,  and  such  a  director  as  Julian 
Mitchell  or  R.  H.  Burnside  may  be  paid  $15,- 
000  a  year.  The  production  of  a  "straight 
play"  often  is  piece  work,  bringing  about 
$500  for  each  piece.  Costumes,  scenery  and 
properties  are  unknown  until  the  last  rehearsal. 

33 


THE    FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

Two  chairs  represent  a  door  or  a  sofa  or  a  bal- 
cony in  the  minds  of  everyone  concerned. 
"What  is  the  woman  doing  on  the  bench?"  I 
inquired  once  at  a  stock  company  rehearsal  of 
"Mr.  Barnes  of  New  York." 

"That  isn't  a  bench,"  the  manager  replied. 
"That's  a  train  of  cars  just  leaving  the  railroad 
station  at  Milan." 

While  these  things  are  going  on  in  borrowed 
theaters  or  rented  halls,  two  departments  in 
your  enterprise  are  preparing  other  details  of 
the  business.  First,  there  is  your  booking  agent. 
His  task,  like  the  matter  of  engaging  a  com- 
pany, has  been  simplified.  Formerly,  he  wrote 
to  the  manager  of  the  theater  you  wanted  in 
every  city  you  wanted  to  play,  and  kept  on 
writing  until  he  had  contracted  for  a  route  that 
would  not  involve  your  jaunting  from  Philadel- 
phia to  Chicago  and  then  back  to  Baltimore  on 
your  way  to  St.  Louis.  Railway  fares,  even  at 
two  cents  each  per  mile  and  one  baggage  enr 
with  every  twenty-five  tickets,  eat  up  profits. 
Now-a-days   your   booking   agent   goes   to   the 

34 


THE  THEATER  AT  A  GLANCE 

booking  agent  of  one  of  the  two  big  syndicates, 
each  of  which  represents  half  of  the  theatres  in 
the  country,  and  that  gentleman  arranges  a 
route  while  you  wait.  Sometimes  it  may  not 
be  a  route  worth  waiting  for,  but  that  is  de- 
termined by  your  importance  and  the  estimated 
drawing  power  of  your  attraction.  Theaters 
are  "played  on  shares",  the  shares  depending 
again  upon  the  drawing  power  of  your  attrac- 
tion and  upon  the  size  of  the  city  booked.  In 
Chicago  you  will  get  50  per  cent,  of  the  re- 
ceipts; in  Newark  60  per  cent;  in  Springfield  or 
New  Haven  70  per  cent.  A  New  York  house 
keeps  50  per  cent,  and,  unless  your  production 
seems  promising,  you  will  be  obliged  to  guaran- 
tee that  the  theater's  share  will  not  fall  below  a 
certain  figure. 

Next,  there  is  your  press  agent.  He  used  to 
be  a  newspaper  man,  and  he  is  worth  $100  a 
week  or  not  more  than  a  dollar  and  a  quarter. 
In  his  office  is  a  stenographer,  a  mimeograph- 
ing machine,  and  a  list  of  six  hundred  daily 
newspapers.      If  he   is  worth   $100  he   knows 

35 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

just  what  each  of  those  newspapers  will  print 
and  what  it  will  not.  It  is  his  business  to  cover 
a  pound  of  advertising  so  completely  with  an 
ounce  of  news  that  the  whole  parcel  will  not  be 
consigned  to  the  waste-basket.  Out  in  Milwau- 
kee and  over  in  Boston  you  have  observed  jour- 
nalistic items  like  these : 

Augustus  Thomas  is  at  work  on  a  new 
play  for  Charles  Frohman.  The  piece  is 
to  be  called  "The  Jew,"  and  will  be  pro- 
duced in  September. 

That's  the  press  agent! 

He  also  designs  bills,  gets  up  circulars,  sends 
out  photographs,  invents  "fake  stories",  and 
takes  the  blame  for  whatever  happens  that 
shouldn't  have  happened.  If  you  have  several 
attractions  you  will  need  a  press  agent  in  New 
York  and  one  with  each  company  on  the  road. 
In  the  parlance  of  the  profession,  the  road  press 
agent  is  "the  man  ahead  of  the  show,"  while 
the  acting  manager  is  "the  man  back  with  the 

36 


THE  THEATER  AT  A  GLANCE 

show."  The  terms  are  self-explanatory.  "The 
man  back  with  the  show"  keeps  the  books, 
"counts  up,"  pays  salaries,  "jollies"  the  star, 
and  maintains  communication  with  his  princi- 
pal. During  the  course  of  your  connection  with 
the  theatrical  business  you  will  have  dealings 
also  with  the  advertising  agent,  who  supervises 
the  posting  of  bills;  the  transfer  companies, 
which  haul  your  production  to  and  from  play- 
houses and  railway  stations;  and  scores  of  other 
people.  You  must  learn  about  them  from  ex- 
perience. 

The  stage  is  a  land  of  wonders  the  geography 
of  which  must  be  pretty  thoroughly  understood 
before  you  can  receive  any  idea  as  to  the  work- 
ing of  the  miracles  that  occur  in  the  ten  min- 
utes the  curtain  is  down  between  acts.  Of 
course,  you  know  that  the  opening  through 
which  you  witness  the  performance  of  a  play 
is  called  the  proscenium  arch.  The  space  be- 
tween the  base  of  this  arch  and  the  footlights  is 
known  as  the  "apron."  That  region  into  which 
you    have    seen    canvas    disappear   when    it   is 

37 


258826 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

hauled  up  from  the  stage  is  the  "flies."    Direct- 
ly under  the  roof  is  a  floor  or  iron  grating  from 
which  are  suspended  the  pulleys  that  bear  the 
weight  of  this  "hanging  stuff,"  and  that  floor, 
for  obvious  reasons,   is  called  the   "gridiron." 
The  little  balcony  fastened  to  the  wall  at  one 
side  of  the  stage  or  another  is  the  "fly  gallery." 
The  loose   ends  of  the   ropes  attached  to  the 
"hanging  stuff"  are  fastened  here,  and  it  is  from 
this  elevation  that  the  "stuff"  aforesaid  is  lifted 
and  lowered.    Scenery  is  of  two  kinds— "drops" 
and  "flats."    Of  the  latter  more  anon.  "Drops" 
are  curtains  of  any  sort  on  which  are  painted 
the  reproductions  of  exteriors  or  interiors,  and 
one  of  the  ordinary  size  weighs  about  two  hun- 
dred pounds.     In  common  with  everything  else 
suspended  in  the  "flies,"  these  "drops"  are  coun- 
terweighted,  so  that  a  couple  of  men  can  move 
them  with  ease.     The  other  things  suspended 
may  be  "flies,"  or  "borders,"  which  are  painted 
strips  that  prevent  your  seeing  any  farther  up 
than  you  are  expected  to  see;  "ceiling  pieces," 
platforms,  and   "border  lights,"  which  are  tin 

38 


THE  THEATER  AT  A  GLANCE 

tubes  as  long  as  the  stage  is  wide,  open  at  the 
bottom,  and  filled  with  incandescent  globes  of 
various  colors  for  illuminating  from  above. 

"Flats"  are  pieces  of  painted  canvas  tacked 
on  a  framework  of  wood.  In  the  old  days  these 
were  held  in  position  by  "grooves,"  or  combina- 
tions of  little  inverted  troughs  that  fitted  over 
the  tops  of  the  "flats."  These  "grooves"  were 
in  sets  four  or  five  feet  apart  running  along  both 
sides  of  the  stage,  and  their  position  gave  to 
various  parts  of  that  platform  designations  that 
are  used  still  in  giving  directions  in  play  manu- 
scripts. Thus,  "L.2.E.,"  or  "Left  second  en- 
trance," is  the  space  between  the  first  and 
second  of  these  sets  on  the  left  of  the  stage.  The 
long  "flats,"  slid  in  to  join  in  the  center  and 
make  the  rear  wall  of  a  dwelling,  for  example, 
constituted  "the  flat"  and  the  short  ones  on 
your  right  or  left  were  "wings."  Then  a  room 
could  be  no  other  shape  than  square  or  oblong, 
and  the  doors  and  windows  had  to  be  in  cer- 
tain specified  places,  no  matter  where  they  would 
have  been  in  a  real  house.     It  is  laughable  now 

39 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

to  consider  how  this  purely  physical  condition 
limited  the  dramatist. 

At  the  present  time  the  building  of  a  house 
with  "flats"  is  not  unlike  building  one  with 
cards.  Each  "flat"  is  placed  where  it  is  desired 
and  held  up  from  behind  by  a  "brace,"  one  end 
of  which  is  screwed  to  the  setting  and  the  other 
to  the  floor.  That  particular  "flat"  is  then 
lashed  to  its  neighbors  with  a  "tab  line,"  much 
as  you  lace  your  shoes.  When  the  walls  have 
been  constructed  in  this  way,  with  doors  and 
windows  wherever  they  are  wanted,  a  ceiling  is 
lowered  from  the  "fly  gallery,"  and  the  dwell- 
ing is  complete.  If  you  are  supposed  to  see  a 
landscape  through  the  window,  a  "drop"  on 
which  a  landscape  has  been  painted  is  lowered 
t'other  side  of  the  rear  wall.  An  "interior 
backing,"  representing  the  wall  of  another 
room,  usually  is  in  the  form  of  a  large  screen 
standing  behind  the  door  where  it  is  needed. 
Corners  of  this  kind  are  illuminated  by  "strip 
lights,"  or  electric  lamps  placed  on  a  strip  of 
wood  and  hung  in  place. 

40 


THE  THEATER  AT  A  GLANCE 

Stage  lighting  has  undergone  a  complete 
revolution  in  the  past  few  years,  the  step  from 
incandescent  lamps  to  calciums  meaning  even 
more  than  the  step  from  gas  to  electric  lamps. 
Formerly,  the  illumination  came  from  the  foot- 
lights and  the  "borders"  exclusively;  the  sun 
rose  and  set  directly  over-head  in  open  defiance 
of  the  Copernican  theory.  Now  the  stage  is 
full  of  minature  trap  doors,  and  to  the  metal 
beneath  these  may  be  attached  wires  that  will 
throw  light  from  anywhere.  There  is  a 
"bridge"  in  the  "first  entrance"  on  the  "prompt 
side"  on  which  sits  a  man  with  apparatus  to  re- 
produce almost  any  effect  known  to  Nature. 
You  have  seen  the  busy  and  important  individ- 
ual who  controls  "lamps"  in  the  dress  circle  or 
the  gallery,  and  without  doubt  you  have  ob- 
served that  nowadays  there  is  very  little  to  keep 
such  a  stage  manager  as  David  Belasco  from 
doing  whatever  he  pleases  with  his  electricity. 

There  are  five  classes  of  men  at  work  on  the 
stage,  all  under  the  direct  supervision  of  the 
master  carpenter.     The  men  in  these  classes  are 

41 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

known  as  "flymen,"  "grips,"  "clearers,"  "prop- 
erty men"  and  electricians.  Each  of  these  has 
his  own  labor  to  accomplish,  and  goes  at  it 
without  loss  of  time  or  regard  to  the  others. 
The  "flymen"  haul  up  and  lower  whatever 
hangs  in  the  "flies."  The  "grips"  attend  to  any 
scenery  that  must  be  set  up  or  pulled  down. 
The  "clearers"  take  away  the  furniture  and  ac- 
cessories that  have  been  used,  and  the  "property 
men"  substitute  other  furniture  and  accessories 
from  the  "property  room."  The  work  of  the 
electricians  has  been  explained.  In  these  days 
of  elaborate  calcium  effects,  there  must  be  a  man 
at  each  "lamp." 

All  these  matters  are  attended  to  as  though 
by  machinery.  When  the  curtain  has  fallen  on 
the  star's  last  bow,  the  stage  manager  cries 
"Strike  1"  This  cry  means  labor  trouble  of  a 
very  different  sort  from  that  usually  created  by 
a  call  to  strike.  The  stage  immediately  be- 
comes a  small  pandemonium.  The  crew  in  the 
"fly  gallery"  works  like  the  crew  on  a  yard  arm 
during  a  yacht  race,  hauling  wildly  at  a  greater 

42 


THE  THEATER  AT  A  GLANCE 

number  of  ropes  than  were  ever  on  a  ship.  In 
consequence  of  their  energy,  trees  and  houses 
soar  into  the  air  as  though  by  magic.  Sam- 
son wasn't  such  a  giant,  after  all.  He  only 
pulled  down  a  building — these  fellows  pull 
buildings  up! 

They  are  not  mightier,  however,  than  their 
colleagues,  the  "grips."  There  walks  a  stal- 
wart individual  carrying  a  folded  balcony  or 
pushing  along  the  whole  side  of  a  church.  An- 
other permits  a  porch  to  collapse  and  fall  into 
his  out-stretched  arms.  How  useful  these 
"grips"  would  have  been  in  San  Francisco! 
Meanwhile,  the  "clearers"  and  "property  men" 
have  been  mixing  things  up  in  great  shape.  The 
last  act  was  an  interior;  the  next  is  to  be  an  ex- 
terior. Consequently,  you  note  a  fine  spot  of 
lawn  growing  directly  under  a  horsehair  sofa 
and  the  trunk  of  a  huge  oak  reclining  affection- 
ately against  a  chest  of  drawers.  Gradually, 
the  signs  of  indoor  life  disappear,  and  then,  sud- 
denly, springing  out  of  absolute  chaos,  you  see 
a  forest  or  a  broad  public  square.    The  "lamps" 

43 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE  AND  AFT 

sputter  a  moment  and  blaze  up,  bathing  the  scene 
in  the  warm  red  of  sunset  or  the  pale  blue  of 
moonlight.  "Second  act!"  screams  the  call-boy, 
running  from  dressing  room  door  to  dressing 
room  door.  The  stage  manager  presses  a  button 
connected  with  a  signal  light  in  front  of  the  or- 
chestra conductor,  and  you  hear  the  purr  of  the 
incidental  music.  He  presses  another  button 
once — twice.  "Buzz!"  hisses  something  in 
the  "fly-gallery,"  and  "buzz!"  again.  The 
curtain  lifts  and  the  play  is  continued.  Every- 
thing has  been  done  in  perfect  order.  Even 
now  the  stage  manager  stands  in  the  "first  en- 
trance," pencil  in  hand,  noting  the  exact  mo- 
ment at  which  the  act  began,  the  minute  at 
which  each  song  was  sung,  and  how  many  en- 
cores it  received.  You — my  friend,  the  man- 
ager— will  get  that  report  to-morrow  morning. 
Here,  omitting  a  dictionary  of  details,  you 
have  the  theater  at  a  glance.  I  feel  tempted, 
like  the  magician  after  he  has  garbled  some  ex- 
planation of  a  difficult  trick,  to  say:  "Now, 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  you  can  go  home  and  do 

44 


"A  stalwart  individual  pushing 
along  the  side  of  a  church!' 


THE  THEATER  AT  A  GLANCE 

it  yourselves."  But  you  can't.  I  couldn't.  The 
thousands  of  important  trifles,  the  thousands  of 
quick  decisions  that  must  be  made  and  of 
clever  things  that  must  be  done — these  are  the 
results  of  genius  and  work  and  of  long,  long 
experience.  Many  an  American  who  has 
"French  at  a  Glance"  on  the  tips  of  his  fingers, 
so  to  speak,  has  to  cackle  in  imitation  of  a  hen 
when  he  wants  to  get  a  soft-boiled  egg  in  Paris. 


47 


SOME  PEOPLE  I'VE  LIED  ABOUT 

Being  reminiscences  of  the  author's  nefarious,  but  more 
or  less  innocuous  career  as  a  press  agent. 

A  PRESS  agent,  as  you  may  have 
gathered  from  the  preceding  article, 
is  a  person  employed  to  obtain  free 
newspaper  advertising  for  any  given  thing,  and 
the  thing  usually  is  a  theatrical  production. 
This  advertising  he  is  supposed  to  get  as  the 
Quaker  was  advised  to  get  money — honestly,  if 
possible.  Since  it  isn't  often  possible,  the  press 
agent  may  be  described  in  two  words  as  a  pro- 
fessional liar. 

There  is  neither  malice  nor  "muck  rake  "  in 
this  assertion.  The  press  agent  knows  that  his 
business  is  the  dissemination  of  falsehood,  and 
he  is  proud  of  it.  Go  up  to  any  member  of  the 
craft  you  find  on  Broadway  and  say  to  him: 
"You  are  a  liar!";  you  will  see  a  smile  of  satis- 
faction  spread  itself  over  his  happy  face,  and 
his  horny  hand  will  grasp  yours  in  earnest  grati- 

48 


SOME  PEOPLE  I'VE  LIED  ABOUT 

tude.  Victor  Hugo  and  Charles  Dickens  and 
William  Makepeace  Thackeray  were  liars,  too, 
according  to  his  way  of  thinking,  and  not  overly 
ingenious  or  entertaining  liars,  at  that.  Their 
fiction  was  spread  upon  the  pages  of  books,  as 
his  is  spread  upon  the  pages  of  the  daily  jour- 
nals, and  their  mission,  like  his,  was  the  enliven- 
ing of  a  terribly  dull  little  planet.  This  altruis- 
tic motive  really  lurks  behind  the  prevarications 
of  the  press  agent  with  imagination.  He  con- 
ceives his  philanthropic  duty  to  be  the  making 
of  news  to  fill  a  demand  largely  in  excess  of  the 
supply.  If  the  pursuit  of  this  purpose  brings 
him  an  income  hovering  about  that  of  a  United 
States  Senator  he  cannot  be  blamed. 

I  became  one  of  the  guild  of  Annanias  some 
ten  or  eleven  years  ago,  coming  fresh  from  the 
position  of  dramatic  critic  on  The  Washington 
Times,  and  I  think  I  may  say  without  undue 
egotism  that,  during  the  period  of  my  member- 
ship, I  lied  industriously,  conscientiously  and 
with  a  fair  degree  of  success.  There  have  been 
and  are  more  able  falsifiers  than  I,  but  the  con- 

49 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

fessions  of  one  man  cannot  in  honor  include  the 
deeds  of  another,  and  so  I  must  omit  them 
from  this  chronicle.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  the 
stories  of  Anna  Held's  bathing  in  milk,  of  Mrs. 
Patrick  Campbell  having  tan  bark  spread  in  the 
street  in  front  of  the  Theater  Republic  to  deaden 
the  rumbling  that  annoyed  her  during  perform- 
ances, and  a  score  similar  in  nature  remain  con- 
spicuous examples  of  the  cleverness  manifested 
by  brilliant  press  agents  in  attracting  attention 
to  the  actors  and  actresses  in  whose  behalf  thev 
labored. 

The  successful  launching  of  a  "fake" — so 
they  are  known  to  the  profession— like  these  is 
not  at  all  the  simple  matter  it  would  appear  to 
be.  The  mere  conception  of  the  story  is  only 
the  beginning  of  the  task.  It  is  not  enough  to 
decide  that  such  and  such  a  thing  might  hap- 
pen, or  to  swear  that  it  has  happened;  it  must 
be  made  to  happen.  Moreover,  the  occurrence 
must  be  so  natural,  and  the  plans  leading  to  it 
so  carefully  laid  and  concealed,  as  to  prevent 
suspicion    and    baffle    investigation.      Whenever 

50 


" The  guild  of  Annanias" 


SOME  PEOPLE  I'VE  LIED  ABOUT 

it  is  possible,  the  press  agent  should  be  ostensi- 
bly unconnected  with  the  affair,  and,  whenever 
it  is  not,  he  must  hide  his  knowledge  behind  a 
mask  of  innocence  in  comparison  with  which 
the  face  of  Mary's  little  lamb  looks  like  a  selec- 
tion from  the  rogues'  gallery. 

There  are  other  requisites  to  the  spinning  of 
a  yarn  which  shall  be  valuable  in  an  advertising 
way.  In  the  first  place,  it  is  necessary  that 
the  story  shall  not  injure  the  reputation  or 
lower  the  standing  of  its  hero  or  heroine,  and 
equally  desirable  that  it  shall  have  no  "come 
back"  that  may  make  enemies  for  the  press 
agent.  The  announcement  that  Mrs.  Patrick 
Campbell  had  won  a  large  sum  from  society 
women  at  bridge  whist,  made  during  an  engage- 
ment of  the  star  in  New  York,  was  given  all 
kinds  of  space  in  the  newspapers,  but  it  brought 
down  upon  Mrs.  Campbell's  devoted  head  such 
scathing  denunciation  from  press  and  pulpit 
that  she  lost  no  time  in  sending  out  a  denial. 
The  publicity  given  the  matrimonial  enterprises 
of  De  Wolf  Hopper,  through  no  fault  of  his 

53 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

advertising  staff,  seriously  injured  that  capable 
.comedian  for  a  time.  A  good  "fake"  is  bizarre 
and  picturesque  enough  to  be  interesting,  will 
defy  the  prober  after  truth,  hurts  no  one  and  so 
creates  no  journalistic  grudges  to  be  fought 
down  in  the  future.  There  must  be  no  limit  to 
the  number  of  times  that  the  press  agent  can 
stir  up  excitement  when  he  calls  "Wolf!" 

So  many  of  the  stories  invented  by  theatrical 
Munchausens  possess  the  qualification  first 
mentioned  that  it  is  by  no  means  unusual  for 
the  inventor  to  take  the  newpaper  man  into  his 
confidence.  Of  course,  before  doing  this  he 
wants  to  feel  sure  of  his  newpaper  and  of  his 
man.  Dailies  there  be  that  prefer  fact  to  fic- 
tion, however  prosaic  the  former;  that  treat  the 
stage  in  so  dignified  a  manner  that,  if  the  Em- 
pire Theater  burned  to  the  ground,  they  prob- 
ably would  print  the  information  under  a  head 
reading  "The  Drama";  that  scorn  the  press 
agent  and  have  only  contempt  for  his  handi- 
work. The  most  rabid  of  these,  strangely 
enough,  is  the  very  paper  that  once,  for  its  own 

54 


'Anna  Held 's  bathing  in  milk" 


SOME  PEOPLE  I'VE  LIED  ABOUT 

amusement,  tried  a  "fake"  about  wild  animals 
escaping  from  Central  Park  Zoo  which  succeed- 
ed so  well  that  for  twenty-four  hours  business 
was  practically  suspended  in  New  York.  At 
least  half  the  journals  in  town  do  not  inquire 
too  closely  into  a  tale  that  is  likely  to  appeal  to 
their  readers,  especially  if  the  tale  in  question  is 
obviously  harmless.  When  the  publicity  pro- 
moter conceals  his  machinations  and  buries  clues 
leading  to  his  connection  with  a  story — "and 
the  same  with  intent  to  deceive" — he  must  plot 
with  great  care,  for  woe  betide  him  if  the  truth 
leaks  out. 

An  excellent  example  of  the  kind  of  "fake" 
in  accomplishing  which  one  may  rely  upon  the 
co-operation  of  the  Fourth  Estate  is  the  inci- 
dent of  Margaret  Mayo  writing  a  play  in  twen- 
ty-four hours.  Miss  Mayo,  who  since  then  has 
written  many  plays,  notably  "Baby  Mine"  and 
"Polly  of  the  Circus,"  at  that  time  was  appear- 
ing with  Grace  George  in  "Pretty  Peggy"  at 
the  Herald  Square  Theater.  The  season  had 
been  dull,  if  profitable,  and  I  was  casting  about 

57 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

for  any  item  likely  to  get  into  print,  when  the 
idea  of  having  someone  go  Paul  Armstrong  two 
better  in  rapidity  of  accomplishment  occurred 
to  me.  Obviously,  it  was  impossible  to  involve 
Miss  George  in  the  episode  without  making  her 
appear  ridiculous,  and  so  I  cast  about  for  a  like- 
ly member  of  her  company. 

Miss  Mayo's  name  suggested  itself  to  me  be- 
cause of  the  fact  that,  even  then,  she  was  at 
work  on  several  plays,  and  I  obtained  her  con- 
sent to  my  plan.  Shortly  afterward  it  was  an- 
nounced from  the  Herald  Square  that  Miss 
Mayo  had  wagered  a  supper  with  Theodore 
Burt  Sayre,  author  of  numerous  well  known 
dramas,  that  she  could  begin  and  complete  a 
four  act  comedy  in  the  space  of  a  single  day. 
The  test  was  to  be  made  on  the  following  Sun- 
day at  the  residence  of  Miss  Mayo,  who  was  to 
have  the  benefit  of  a  stenographer,  and,  to 
guard  against  her  using  an  idea  previously 
worked  out,  the  advantage  of  a  synopsis  fur- 
nished by  Mr.  Sayre.  This  synopsis  was  to  be 
delivered  in  a  sealed  envelope  at  six  o'clock  one 

58 


SOME  PEOPLE  I'VE  LIED  ABOUT 

morning  and  the  play  was  to  be  finished  at  six 
o'clock  the  next.  Mr.  Sayre,  an  intimate  per- 
sonal friend,  had  been  furnished  with  these  de- 
tails over  the  telephone,  and  affirmed  them  when 
called  up  by  the  reporters.  Our  announcement 
was  printed  by  nearly  every  newspaper  in  town. 

The  stenographer  provided  Miss  Mayo  on 
that  eventful  morning  was  my  own — a  bright, 
quick-witted  Irish  girl,  whose  name,  unfortu- 
nately, I  have  forgotten.  The  synopsis  of  the 
play  was  Miss  Mayo's.  She  had  it  made  from 
an  old  piece  of  her  own,  which  had  been  freshly 
typed  a  day  or  two  before.  Saturday  night, 
sheets  from  this  manuscript  were  generously 
distributed  about  the  room,  the  remaining  sheets 
were  hidden  in  a  bureau  drawer,  the  typewriter 
was  put  in  position,  and  our  scenery  was  ready. 
Business  took  me  to  Philadelphia  on  a  late  train, 
and  the  beginning  of  our  two  little  comedies — 
that  to  be  written  and  that  to  be  acted — was 
entrusted  to  Miss  Mayo. 

I  got  back  from  the  Quaker  City  shortly  af- 
ter  noon    on    Sunday   and   went   direct   to   the 

59 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

scene  of  action.  I  rang  the  front  bell,  the  door 
opened  automatically,  and  I  climbed  the  stairs 
to  the  apartment.  From  the  hall  I  heard  a 
nervous  voice  and  the  click  of  a  typewriter. 
Somebody  admitted  me  and  mine  eyes  beheld 
as  excellent  a  counterfeit  of  fevered  energy  as 
it  has  ever  been  their  luck  to  fall  upon.  Miss 
Mayo  was  pacing  the  floor  wildly,  dictating  at 
least  sixty  words  a  minute,  while  the  stenog- 
rapher bent  quiveringly  over  her  machine.  That 
portion  of  a  manuscript  which  Arthur  Wing 
Pinero  might  possibly  prepare  in  six  months  lay 
on  the  table.  The  typist  broke  the  charm. 
"Why!"  she  exclaimed;  "it's  Mr.  Pollock!" 

"Oh!"  said  Miss  Mayo.  "  I  thought  you 
were  a  newspaper  man.  Sit  down  and  have  a 
biscuit." 

This  pretence  was  continued  all  day.  When 
reporters  came  we  struggled  with  the  difficulties 
of  rapid-fire  composition;  when  they  didn't  we 
ate  biscuits  and  manifolded  epigrams  which  af- 
terwards were  sent  to  waiting  city  editors  and 
quoted  as  being  from  the  twenty-four  hour  play. 

60 


SOME  PEOPLE  I'VE  LIED  ABOUT 

Miss  Mayo  was  photographed  several  times 
and  we  had  a  delicious  dinner  at  six.  After- 
ward, we  named  our  product  "The  Mart"  and 
separated  for  the  night.  Despite  our  thin  his- 
trionism,  there  wasn't  a  newspaper  man  among 
our  visitors  who  didn't  know  in  his  secret  soul 
that  the  whole  thing  had  been  cooked  up  for  ad- 
vertising  purposes,  yet,  a  newsless  Sunday  aid- 
ing and  abetting  us,  we  had  more  space  the 
next  morning  than  might  have  been  devoted  to 
the  outbreak  of  a  revolution  in  France. 

Similarly,  no  intelligent  person  could  have 
questioned  for  a  moment  the  purpose  of  the 
matinee  which  De  Wolf  Hopper  gave  "for  wo- 
men only"  soon  afterward  at  the  Casino  Thea- 
ter. "Happyland,"  the  opera  in  which  Mr. 
Hopper  was  appearing,  made  no  especial  ap- 
peal to  the  gentler  sex,  while  the  presenting 
company  included  so  many  pretty  girls  that  a 
performance  "for  men  only"  would  have  been 
infinitely  more  reasonable.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
I  first  conceived  the  idea  in  this  form,  but 
swerved  from  my  course  upon  taking  into  ac- 

61 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

count  two  important  considerations.     The  an- 
nouncement of  an  entertainment  "for  men  only" 
must  have  created  the  impression  that  there  was 
something  objectionable  about  the  presentation 
— an  impression  we  were  extremely  anxious  to 
avoid— and  it  would  not  have  given  the  oppor- 
tunities for  humorous  writing  which  we  hoped 
would  serve  as  bait  to  the  reporters.     Foresee- 
ing that  upon  the  obviousness  of  these  oppor- 
tunities would  depend  the  amount  of  attention 
paid  to  so  palpable  an  advertising  scheme,  we 
took  care  to  guard  against  a  dearth  of  incident 
by  providing  our  own  happenings.     Among  the 
number  of  these  were  the  entrance  of  a  youth 
who  had  disguised  himself  as  a  girl  in  order  to 
gain  admittance,  the  appearance  of  a  husband 
who  insisted  that  his  wife  must  not  remain  at  a 
performance   from   which   he  was  barred,   and 
one  or  two  similar  episodes.     We  found,  in  the 
end,   that  these  devices  were  superfluous.     On 
the  afternoon  selected,  the  interior  of  the  Casino 
fairly    grinned    with    femininity,    the    audience 
looked  like  a  Mormon  mass  meeting  multiplied 

62 


SOME  PEOPLE  I'VE  LIED  ABOUT 

by  two,  and  even  so  dignified  and  important  a 
news-gathering  service  as  the  Associated  Press 
condescended  to  take  facetious  notice  of  the 
"Women's  Matinee." 

If  you  recollect  what  you  read  in  newspapers, 
it  is  not  at  all  impossible  that,  even  at  this  date, 
you  will  find  something  familiar  about  the 
name  of  Marion  Alexander.  You  don't?  Per- 
haps your  memory  can  be  assisted.  Miss  Alex- 
ander was  the  chorus  girl  supporting  Lillian 
Russell  in  "Lady  Teazle"  who  sued  the  late 
Sam  S.  Shubert  for  $10,000  because  he  had  said 
she  was  not  beautiful.  The  story  of  this  slan- 
der and  of  the  resentment  it  provoked  went  all 
around  the  world,  though  it  is  unlikely  that  any- 
one who  printed  it  was  deceived  as  to  the  genu- 
ineness of  the  lady's  fine  frenzy.  The  Marion 
Alexander  tale  had  all  the  journalistic  attrac- 
tions of  the  "Women's  Matinee,"  in  that  it  was 
unique  and  admitted  of  breeziness  in  narration, 
but  it  had  in  addition  an  advantage  that  no 
press  agent  overlooks — it  was  susceptible  to  il- 
lustration.     Newspapers   always    are   eager   to 

63 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

print  pictures  of  pretty  women.  The  average 
New  York  journal  had  rather  reproduce  a  stun- 
ning photograph  of  Trixie  Twinkletoes  than  the 
most  dignified  portrait  of  Ellen  Terry  or  Ada 
Rehan.  Miss  Alexander  was  pretty — I  haven't 
the  least  doubt  that  she  still  is — and,  while  this 
story  was  running  its  course,  the  Shuberts  paid 
nearly  $300  for  photographs  used  by  daily  pa- 
pers, weekly  papers,  periodicals,  magazines  and 
news  syndicates. 

In  the  course  of  the  controversy  Miss  Russell 
took  occasion  to  side  with  Mr.  Shubert— she 
didn't  know  she  had  done  so  until  she  read  her 
paper  the  next  morning — and  ventured  the 
opinion  that  no  brunette  could  possibly  be  beau- 
tiful. As  had  been  expected,  this  statement 
aroused  a  storm  of  protest.  There  are  a  mil- 
lion brunettes  in  New  York,  and  to  say  that  we 
succeeded  in  interesting  them  is  putting  it  mild- 
ly. When  "Lady  Teazle"  departed  for  the 
road  they  were  still  writing  indignant  letters  to 
The  American  and  Journal,  and  nearly  every 
letter  gave  added  prominence  to  Miss  Russell. 

64 


SOME  PEOPLE  I'VE  LIED  ABOUT 

I  wrote  a  few  indignant  letters  myself  and  had 
them  copied  in  long  hand  by  the  telephone  girls 
and  stenographers  in  the  building.  It  is  quite 
needless  to  say  that  Miss  Alexander's  suit  never 
came  to  trial. 

Twice  during  my  career  of  prevarication, 
managing  editors  became  interested  in  my  hum- 
ble efforts  at  the  creation  of  news  and  demand- 
ed proofs  that  were  not  easily  manufactured. 
While  "Fantana"  was  running  at  the  Lyric 
Theater,  I  discovered  a  chorus  girl  whose  dog 
wore  an  exquisite  pair  of  diamond  ear-rings. 
To  be  quite  accurate,  neither  the  chorus  girl 
nor  the  dog  had  thought  of  any  such  adornment 
when  we  three  became  acquainted,  but  a  ten 
cent  pair  of  jewels  stuck  to  the  animal's  head 
with  chewing  gum  and  the  popular  belief  that 
"the  camera  does  not  lie"  were  expected  to  make 
the  discovery  seem  convincing.  An  iconoclast 
on  The  World  made  it  necessary  for  us  to  bor- 
row ear  rings  from  Tiffany's  and  bore  holes  in 
the  flesh  of  a  poor  little  canine  that  might  never 
have   known   what   suffering  was   but   for   the 

65 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

shocking  skepticism  mentioned. 

If  the  beast  in  this  case  was  martyred  in  the 
interest  of  science — the  science  of  advertising 
— the  staff  of  the  press  department  at  the  Lyric 
had  its  share  of  agony  a  little  later  on.  We  had 
sent  out  ingenuously  a  trifling  story  about  what 
we  were  pleased  to  call  a  "chorus  girls'  rogues 
gallery",  detailing  the  manner  in  which  the  rec- 
ords of  the  young  women  were  kept  on  the 
backs  of  photographs  filed  away  in  a  room  ar- 
ranged for  that  purpose.  The  World  wanted 
the  tale  verified  and  inquired  blandly  if  it  might 
send  up  a  reporter  to  inspect.  We  replied  with 
equal  politeness  that  it  might — the  next  day. 
That  afternoon  we  bought  a  rubber  stamp  and 
nearly  a  thousand  old  pictures,  and  all  night 
long  six  of  us  worked  on  a  "chorus  girls'  rogues' 
gallery"  that  would  live  up  to  its  reputation. 
Our  reward  was  a  page  in  colors. 

Sometimes  things  really  do  happen  to  actors 
and  actresses,  and  so,  not  infrequently,  there  is 
a  grain  of  truth  in  the  news  printed  about  them. 
Onlv  a  grain,  mind  you,   for  if  a  tenth  of  the 

66 


ALAS... 

POOR 


YORICK 


HU 


"Sometimes  things  really 
do  happen  to  actors" 


SOME  PEOPLE  I'VE  LIED  ABOUT 

events  in  which  they  are  supposed  to  take  part 
were  actual,  the  inevitable  end  of  life  on  the 
stage  would  be  death  of  nervous  prostration. 
The  wide-awake  press  agent  is  quick  to  plant 
the  grain  of  truth  aforesaid,  growing  there- 
from stories  no  more  like  the  originals  than  a 
radish  is  like  a  radish  seed.  Grace  George  once 
telegraphed  me  to  Chicago  that  she  would  not 
open  at  the  Grand  Opera  House  in  "Pretty 
Peggy"  on  a  Sunday.  She  felt,  quite  rightly, 
that  eight  performances  a  week  was  the  limit  of 
her  endurance.  Staring  at  a  pile  of  printed  bills 
announcing  an  engagement  beginning  on  the 
Sabbath,  I  concluded  that  this  ultimatum  had 
reached  the  limit  of  mine.  Then  an  inspiration. 
Up  went  the  original  bills,  to  be  covered  a  day 
later  with  others  advertising  the  first  perform- 
ance for  Monday.  The  newspapers  were  curi- 
ous as  to  why  the  change  had  been  made  and 
we  were  willing,  not  to  say  eager,  to  satisfy  their 
curiosity.  Miss  George  did  not  believe  in  giv- 
ing theatrical  performances  on  Sunday.  At  least 
a  dozen  clerygmen  read  this  and  told  their  con- 

69 


THE    FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND   AFT 

gregations  about  it  the  day  before  the  post- 
poned advent  of  "Pretty  Peggy." 

Caught  in  a  blizzard  at  Oswego,  N.  Y., 
eight  years  ago,  I  was  informed  that  the  only 
chance  of  my  joining  Miss  George  that  night  at 
Syracuse  lay  in  making  the  trip  in  a  special  lo- 
comotive. That  necessity  got  printed  through- 
out the  country  a  vivid  description  of  Miss 
George  driving  an  engine  through  banks  of 
snow  in  order  to  reach  Syracuse  for  her  per- 
formance of  "Under  Southern  Skies."  The 
woman  who  actually  made  the  trip  was  a  wait- 
ress from  an  Oswego  hotel  and  she  received  $10 
for  it. 

William  A.  Brady  wanted  a  thousand  girls 
in  September,  1902,  for  his  Woman's  Exhibi- 
tion at  Madison  Square  Garden.  They  could 
have  been  obtained  without  the  knowledge  of 
the  police,  but  secrecy  was  not  the  desideratum. 
"Wanted — 1000  Women  at  Madison  Square 
Garden  at  8  P.  M.  on  Friday"  was  an  advertise- 
ment which  brought  down  upon  us  nearly  thrice 
that   number,    together   with    a   small   army   of 

70 


SOME  PEOPLE  I'VE  LIED  ABOUT 

newspaper  reporters  and  photographers.  This 
was  the  first  gun  fired  in  a  campaign  of  adver- 
tising for  a  show  during  the  existence  of  which 
we  obtained  nearly  six  hundred  columns  of 
space  in  New  York. 

Truth  is  never  important  in  a  press  agent's 
story,  and  there  are  some  occurrences  that 
he  actually  suppresses.  Accounts  of  small  fires, 
accidents,  thefts  and  quarrels  do  not  get  into 
type  if  he  can  help  it.  Several  kinds  of 
news  items  have  been  "faked"  so  often  that 
no  one  would  attempt  to  have  them  mentioned 
journalistically  should  examples  of  their  class 
really  happen.  He  would  be  a  brave  publicity 
promoter,  for  instance,  who  sent  to  an  editor 
the  tale  of  his  star  stopping  a  runaway,  no  mat- 
ter how  firmly  the  tale  might  be  based  on  fact. 
Miss  George  had  stolen  from  her  a  valuable 
diamond  necklace  while  she  was  playing  in 
"Pretty  Peggy"  and  knew  better  than  to  per- 
mit my  sending  out  an  announcement  of  the 
theft.  "An  Actress  Loses  Her  Diamonds!" 
You  laugh  scornfully  at  the  very  idea.    The  pa- 

7i 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

pers  no  longer  publish  accounts  of  people  stand- 
ing in  line  before  box  offices  all  night  in  order 
to  secure  good  seats  in  the  morning,  though  I 
succeeded  in  obtaining  mention  of  this  feature 
of  Sarah  Bernhardt's  last  engagement  but  one 
in  New  York  by  injecting  into  the  yarn  a  few 
drops  of  what  theatrical  managers  call  "heart 
interest."  Five  dollars  and  a  little  careful  coach- 
ing secured  for  me  a  picturesque  looking  old 
woman  who  convinced  her  inquisitors  that  she 
once  had  acted  with  the  Divine  Sarah  in  Paris. 
Her  vigil  in  the  lobby  of  the  Lyric  received 
more  attention  than  did  the  bona  fide  line  of 
three  thousand  persons  that  I  rose  at  five  to  have 
photographed  on  the  morning  following. 

This  imposter's  husband  afterward  figured 
at  the  Casino  in  the  role  of  a  man  whose  visit 
to  "Happyland"  was  the  first  he  had  made  to 
a  theater  since  the  night  on  which  he  had  wit- 
nessed the  shooting  of  Abraham  Lincoln.  The 
tale  we  told  was  that  this  spectacle  had  so  affect- 
ed him  that  the  soothing  influence  of  forty  years 
was  required  to  bring  him  again  into  the  pre- 

72 


SOME  PEOPLE  I'VE  LIED  ABOUT 

cincts  of  a  playhouse.  Interviewed  by  the  rep- 
resentatives of  several  journals,  he  made  a  com- 
parison between  theatrical  performances  of  ante 
bellum  times  and  those  of  today  that  could 
hardly  have  been  more  convincing  had  my  con- 
federate's price  not  included  two  seats  for  the 
preceding  evening  at  another  place  of  amuse- 
ment under  direction  of  the  Shuberts.  This 
story,  which  went  the  rounds  of  the  country, 
cost,  all  in  all,  ten  minutes  work  and  three  sil- 
ver dollars.  I  mention  it  as  an  instance  of  the 
simple  "fake"  that  sometimes  proves  most  ef- 
fective. 

An  equally  simple  story,  used  almost  simul- 
taneously, came  near  being  less  inexpensive. 
Henry  Miller  was  about  to  produce  "Grier- 
son's  Way"  at  the  Princess  Theater,  and,  re- 
hearsals not  progressing  to  his  satisfaction,  he 
determined  to  postpone  the  scheduled  date  of 
opening.  This  determination  we  resolved  upon 
turning  to  our  own  account.  We  advertised 
widely  that  Mr.  Miller  had  lost  the  only  ex- 
isting manuscript  of  the   play,   without  which 

73 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND   AFT 

the  performance  could  not  be  given,  and  that 
he  would  pay  $500  reward  for  its  restoration. 
Two  days  afterward  Mr.  Miller  called  me  up 
on  the  telephone.  "An  awful  thing  has  hap- 
pened!" he  said.  "I've  actually  lost  a  manu- 
script of  'Grierson's  Way.'  " 

"What  of  it?"  I  inquired. 

"What  of  it!"  echoed  Mr.  Miller.  "Sup- 
posing somebody  brings  the  'script  to  me  and. 
demands  that  $500?" 

Fortunately,  "Grierson's  Way"  was  found 
by  a  stage  hand  who  was  satisfied  with  a  small 
bill  and  an  explanation. 

It  seems  hardly  probable  that  anyone  will 
recall  how  a  barber  once  delayed  the  beginning 
of  a  performance  of  "Taps"  until  half  past 
eight  o'clock,  yet  that  tale  was  one  of  the  most 
successful  of  simple  stories.  The  only  prepara- 
tion required  was  posting  the  chosen  tonsorial- 
ist  and  holding  the  curtain  at  the  Lyric.  Her- 
bert Kelcey,  according  to  the  explanation  given 
out,  had  been  shaved  when  he  discovered  that 
he  did  not  have  the  usual  fee  about  him.     "I'll 

74 


SOME  PEOPLE  I'VE  LIED  ABOUT 

pay  you  tomorrow,"  he  had  remarked.  "I'm 
Herbert  Kelcey." 

"Herbert  Kelcey  nuttin'  I"  his  creditor  had 
replied.  "Dat  gag  don't  go!  You  stay  here 
until  you  get  dat  fifteen  cents!" 

A  messenger,  hastily  summoned,  was  said 
to  have  released  the  actor  shortly  after  the  hour 
for  "ringing  up."  The  idea  that  a  barber  could 
keep  a  thousand  people  waiting  for  their  en- 
tertainment was  both  novel  and  humorous,  and, 
in  the  vernacular,  our  story  "landed  hard." 
The  strike  of  the  Helen  May  Butler  Military 
Band  at  the  Woman's  Exhibition  was  arranged 
with  equal  ease  and  proved  equally  good.  That 
exhibition  was  wonderfully  fruitful.  Almost 
anything  the  women  did  seemed  amusing,  and 
the  show  itself  was  so  extraordinary  that  its 
smallest  features  were  interesting. 

As  elaborate  a  tale  as,  for  example,  the  fa- 
mous Anna  Held  milk  bath  story,  to  which  I 
have  referred,  requires  more  plotting  and  ar- 
ranging than  would  the  founding  of  a  revolu- 
tionary   society    in    Russia.      One    may    spend 

75 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE  AND  AFT 

weeks  of  work  and  hundreds  of  dollars  on  such 
a  "fake,"  only  to  trace  its  subsequent  failure  to 
some  trifling  flaw  in  the  chain  of  circumstance. 
Widely  though  a  successful  story  of  this  sort 
may  be  chronicled,  the  reward  is  absolutely  in- 
commensurate with  the  labor  involved,  and  I 
think  few  press  agents  would  ever  attempt  one 
were  it  not  for  a  gambler's  love  of  excitement. 
It  was  during  Judge  Alton  B.  Parker's  pres- 
idential campaign  that  I  evolved  what  I  con- 
sider my  most  magnificent  "fake."  At  that 
time  I  represented  several  attractions  in  New 
York,  chief  among  the  number  two  musical 
comedies,  entitled  "The  Royal  Chef"  and  "Piff, 
Pan",  Pouf."  I  wired  Judge  Parker's  secretary 
that  the  choruses  of  these  productions  had 
formed  a  club,  which  was  to  be  known  as  The 
Theatrical  Women's  Parker  Association,  and 
the  purpose  of  which  was  to  induce  male  per- 
formers to  go  home  to  vote.  Would  Judge 
Parker  receive  a  delegation  from  this  society? 
The  wire  was  signed  "Nena  Blake,"  and,  in 
due  time,  Miss  Blake  received  a  courteous  and 

76 


SOME  PEOPLE  I'VE  LIED  ABOUT 

conclusive  reply.     Judge  Parker  would  not. 

That  message  was  a  stunner.  In  the  face 
of  it,  there  was  only  one  thing  to  do — send 
along  our  delegation  on  the  pretence  that  no  an- 
swer to  our  communication  had  ever  been  re- 
ceived. Nine  chorus  ladies  were  picked  out  in 
a  hurry,  placed  in  charge  of  a  shrewd  newspa- 
per woman  who  passed  as  another  show  girl, 
and  the  whole  outfit  was  dispatched  to  Aesopus. 
The  newspaper  woman  had  instructions  to  reg- 
ister at  a  prominent  hotel  as  a  delegation  from 
the  Theatrical  Women's  Parker  Association, 
and  to  parade  herself  and  her  charges  before  all 
the  alert  correspondents  in  the  little  town  on 
the  Hudson.  That  done,  we  who  had  stayed 
behind  got  ready  photographs  of  the  pilgrims 
and  waited. 

The  wait  was  not  long.  By  nine  o'clock  that 
night  the  bait  had  been  swallowed  at  Aesopus, 
and  my  office  was  crowded  with  reporters  anxi- 
ous to  verify  the  story  wired  from  up  the  river. 
Judge  Parker,  with  characteristic  kindness, 
had  lunched  the  party,  allowed  it  to  sing  to  him, 

77 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

and  sent  it  away  rejoicing.  Most  of  the  boys 
"smelled  a  mouse,"  but  the  thing  was  undenia- 
bly true  and  much  too  important  to  be  ignored. 
The  Theatrical  Women's  Parker  Club,  "Piff, 
Paff,  Pouf"  and  "The  Royal  Chef"  were  well 
advertised  the  next  morning. 

It  was  the  failure  of  a  prominent  newspaper 
to  mention  either  of  our  plays  by  name  that 
drove  me  to  further  utilization  of  this  scheme. 
Such  an  omission  is  always  unfair  and  unjust.  A 
story  is  good  enough  to  be  printed  or  it  is  not: 
if  not,  nobody  has  cause  for  complaint,  if  it  is, 
there  is  no  reason  why  a  newspaper  should  deny 
the  expected  compensation.  Resolving  that  [ 
would  compel  this  payment,  I  immediately  ar- 
ranged for  a  public  meeting  of  the  Theatrical 
Women's  Parker  Club.  The  Democratic  Na- 
tional Committee  furnished  us  with  a  cart-load 
of  campaign  literature  and  with  three  speakers, 
one  of  whom  was  Senator  Charles  A.  Towne. 
The  other  orators  we  provided.  They  were 
Eddie  Foy,  Dave  Lewis,  Nena  Blake,  Grace 
Cameron    and    Amelia    Stone.      The   juxtaposi- 

78 


"A  public  meeting  of  The 
Theatrical  Women's  Parker  Club" 


SOME  PEOPLE  I'VE  LIED  ABOUT 

tion,  I  felt  confident,  was  sufficiently  grotesque 
to  provoke  comment. 

I  wrote  nine  political  speeches  for  the  occa- 
sion, held  two  rehearsals,  and,  when  our  ad- 
vertisements failed  to  draw  an  audience,  secured 
a  fine  one  by  sending  to  such  congregating 
places  as  the  Actors'  Society.  The  affair  passed 
off  beautifully,  Senator  Towne  adapting  him- 
self to  circumstances  and  making  one  of  the 
most  graceful  and  agreeable  addresses  imagin- 
able. I  heard  it  from  a  nook  in  the  fly  gallery, 
where  I  remained  until  the  meeting  was  ad- 
journed. This  "fake"  accomplished  its  purpose, 
the  delinquent  newspaper  falling  in  line  with  the 
others  in  publishing  the  story. 

It  would  tax  your  patience  and  your  faith  in 
the  existence  of  modesty  were  I  to  go  into  de- 
tail regarding  a  score  of  similar  "fakes"  which 
come  to  mind.  How  this  same  Nena  Blake  was 
kidnapped  from  the  Garrick  Theater,  Chicago, 
and  sent  to  New  York  in  the  costume  she  wore 
in  "The  Royal  Chef";  how  her  sister,  Bertha, 
was  sent  to  Zion  to  kiss  the  unkissed  son  of 

8i 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

John  Alexander  Dowie;  how  a  supposed  Ger* 
man  baron  threw  across  the  footlights  to  Julia 
Sanderson  a  bouquet  from  which  dropped  an 
$18,000  diamond  necklace;  how  a  chorus  girl 
named  Thorne  created  a  sensation  at  a  Physi- 
cal Culture  Show  in  Madison  Square  Garden 
by  declaring  the  costume  she  was  expected  to 
wear  "shockingly  immodest";  how  a  niece  of 
Adele  Ritchie  changed  her  name  to  Adele 
Ritchie  Jr.,  and  Miss  Ritchie  herself  was  sought 
in  marriage  by  a  Siamese  millionaire — all  of 
these  anecdotes  must  pass  with  the  mere  men- 
tion that  they  were  successful  "fakes." 

The  manner  in  which  a  good  story  may  go 
wrong  merits  more  extended  description.  While 
an  extravanganza,  yclept  "The  Babes  and  the 
Baron",  was  in  town,  T  resolved  upon  a  news 
event  so  complicated  that  I  wonder  now  at  my 
temerity  in  undertaking  it.  The  idea  was  that 
some  well  known  doctor  should  find  on  his  door- 
step one  morning  a  young  and  pretty  girl,  fash- 
ionably dressed  and  intelligent-looking,  but  quite 
unable  to  recall  her  name  or  to  give  an  account 

82 


SOME  PEOPLE  I'VE  LIED  ABOUT 

of  herself.  The  doctor,  naturally  enough, 
would  report  the  affair  to  the  police,  who,  in 
turn,  would  give  it  to  the  reporters.  These  gen- 
tlemen, deceived  by  the  fact  that  no  possible  ad- 
vertising could  be  suspected  in  the  case  of  a  wo- 
man who  looked  untheatrical  and  who  did  not 
even  know  her  own  name,  were  expected  to  give 
untold  space  in  the  evening  papers  to  the  mys- 
tery. After  the  journals  in  question  had  been 
published,  the  girl  was  to  be  identified,  so  that 
her  name  and  that  of  "The  Babes  and  the 
Baron"  might  be  printed  in  the  morning. 

It  was  necessary  that,  at  this  time,  the  vic- 
tim should  be  able  to  give  a  good  reason  for 
her  condition.  The  reason  selected  was  as  fol- 
lows: During  the  performance  of  the  extrava- 
ganza, some  question  had  arisen  as  to  the  young 
woman's  courage  or  cowardice.  To  prove  the 
former,  she  had  volunteered  to  hide  in  the  Eden 
Musee  and  to  remain  all  night  in  the  "chamber 
of  horrors."  The  terrible  sights  of  this  place 
had  frightened  her  into  hysteria;  the  porter, 
hearing  her  scream  and  believing  her  to  be  in- 

83 


THE    FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

toxicated,  had  ejected  her;  a  kindly  old  gentle- 
man had  found  her  in  the  street  and  started  to 
drive  her  to  a  hospital,  when,  becoming  alarm- 
ed, he  had  decided  instead  to  place  her  on  the 
doorstep  of  a  physician's  house,  ring  the  bell, 
and  get  away. 

Anyone  will  tell  you  that  the  first  essential 
to  having  roast  goose  for  dinner  is  to  get  your 
goose.  At  least  twenty  chorus  girls  must  have 
been  interrogated  before  I  found  one  willing 
and  competent  to  try  the  experiment.  Mabel 
Wilbur,  afterward  prima  donna  of  "The  Mer- 
ry Widow",  was  chosen,  and  she  spent  eleven 
days  being  instructed  in  the  symptoms  of  the 
mental  disease  known  as  asphasia.  The  offi- 
cials of  the  Eden  Musee,  glad  to  share  the  ad- 
vertising, carefully  coached  the  porter  in  the 
story  he  was  to  tell.  The  stage  manager  of 
'The  Babes  and  the  Baron"  was  admitted  into 
the  secret  and  a  bright  journalist  was  engaged 
to  hover  about  and  superintend  affairs.  Of 
course,  my  appearance  in  the  neighborhood  of 
the    sickroom    would    have    been    fatal    to    the 

84 


SOME  PEOPLE  I'VE  LIED  ABOUT 

"fake." 

Miss  Wilbur  was  left  on  the  doctor's  door- 
step shortly  after  four  o'clock  one  mild  morn- 
ing. From  that  time  until  night  the  scheme 
worked  like  a  charm.  Miss  Wilbur,  bravely 
enduring  all  sorts  of  physical  and  mental  tests, 
passed  the  scrutiny  of  a  dozen  detectives  and 
medical  men.  After  vainly  buying  a  dozen  edi- 
tions of  the  evening  papers  in  an  anxious  effort 
to  learn  how  matters  were  progressing,  I  sud- 
denly found  the  journals  filled  with  the  affair. 
"The  Mystery  of  a  Hansom  Cab — Pretty  Girl 
Left  on  Doctor's  Doorstep  in  Dying  Condi- 
tion" and  "Police  Have  New  Problem"  were 
headlines  that  flared  across  front  pages.  Up 
to  that  point  the  story  had  been  a  huge  success. 
There  remained  only  the  matter  of  identifica- 
tion to  connect  with  the  other  story,  like  two 
ends  of  a  tunnel  meeting,  and  this  promised  to 
be  a  delicate  matter.  Say  "chorus  girl"  to  a 
newspaper  man  and  he  immediately  becomes 
suspicious.     Our  hardest  work  was  before  us. 

At  nine  o'clock  the  stage  manager  of  "The 

85 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

Babes  and  the  Baron"  was  sent  around  to  recog- 
nize Miss  Wilbur.  It  was  he  who  had  chal- 
lenged her  courage,  and,  alarmed  at  her  failure 
to  report  for  the  performance,  he  had  hastened 
to  pick  up  the  clue  given  him  by  the  evening  pa- 
pers. Miss  Wilbur's  identity  was  established 
in  the  presence  of  a  score  of  reporters  and 
photographers,  none  of  whom  seemed  to  sus- 
pect anything.  "At  the  hour  of  going  to  press" 
we  all  felt  certain  that  we  had  "pulled  off"  the 
biggest  theatrical  "fake"  known  to  history. 

Every  paper  in  town  had  the  story  the  next 
morning — but  it  was  the  true  story.  A  City 
News  Association  man  had  recognized  my 
bright  journalist,  at  that  time  passing  himself 
off  as  a  brother  of  Miss  Wilbur,  and  the  net  re- 
sult of  our  fortnight's  toiling  and  moiling  was 
some  six  columns  of  ridicule. 

These  confessions  would  be  incomplete  if  I 
did  not  admit  here  and  now  that  this  story  was 
the  most  ill-advised  of  my  career.  It  brought 
discomfit  and  discredit  to  a  dozen  persons,  it  in- 
volved an  attempt  to  deceive  some  of  my  best 

86 


SOME  PEOPLE  I'VE  LIED  ABOUT 

friends,  and  it  put  me  in  a  bad  light  at  the  very 
time  that  the  approaching  premiere  of  a  play 
from  my  pen  made  that  most  undesirable.  A 
great  many  city  editors  have  never  forgiven  me 
my  part  in  this  particular  "fake,"  although  the 
owner  of  an  evening  paper  wrote  me  the  next 
day:  "I  was  fooled  from  first  to  last.  You're 
a  wonder.     Congratulations." 

Another  bad  mistake  was  my  story  regard- 
ing the  willingness  of  the  management  to  pay 
$50  a  week  for  exceptionally  beautiful  chorus 
girls  to  appear  in  "Mexicana."  The  story  was 
printed  all  over  the  world,  but  it  caused  critics 
to  stamp  as  ugly  one  of  the  most  attractive  en- 
sembles ever  brought  to  New  York.  "If  any 
of  these  girls,"  said  The  Sun,  "gets  $50  a  week 
her  employers  are  entitled  to  a  rebate."  I  can- 
not place  in  the  same  catalogue  Madame  Bern- 
hardt's  appeal  to  the  French  Ambassador  at 
Washington  to  protest  against  her  exclusion 
from  playhouses  controlled  by  the  so-called 
Theatrical  Syndicate.  Madame  denied  this 
over    her    own    signature,    but,    from    a    press 

87 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

agent's  point  of  view,   it  was  an  exceedingly 
creditable  falsehood. 

It  is  possible  to  discuss  at  endless  length  the 
real  value  of  the  "fake"  and  its  place  in  thea- 
trical advertising.  Perhaps  no  one  ever  went 
to  a  theater  merely  because  one  of  the  per- 
formers at  that  theater  was  supposed  to  have 
bathed  in  milk  or  to  have  stopped  a  runaway 
horse.  On  the  other  hand,  I  am  sure  that  no 
one  ever  went  to  a  theater  because  he  or  she 
had  seen  the  name  of  the  play  acted  there  posted 
conspicuously  on  a  bill-board.  The  mission  of 
the  bill-board  is  to  call  attention  to  the  fact  that 
there  is  such-and-such  an  entertainment  and 
that  it  may  be  seen  at  such-and-such  a  house. 
There  is  no  question  in  my  mind  but  that  this 
much  is  done  for  a  production  by  "fake"  stories 
concerning  it.  In  rare  instances,  where  the 
story  accentuates  the  importance  of  the  pre- 
sentation and  its  success,  or  awakens  interest 
in  some  member  of  the  presenting  company,  the 
service  performed  may  be  even  greater.  At  all 
events,  the  average  manager  expects  this  kind  of 

88 


SOME  PEOPLE  I'VE  LIED  ABOUT 

advertising  from  the  publicity  promoter  to  whom 
he  pays  a  salary,  and,  naturally,  the  publicity  pro- 
motor  feels  that  it  is  "his  not  to  reason  why." 
The  press  agent  realizes  that  to  any  failure  on 
his  part  will  always  be  attributed  the  misfor- 
tunes of  the  management  with  which  he  is  con- 
nected. Productions  do  a  good  business  be- 
cause they  are  good  productions,  and  a  bad  bus- 
iness because  they  have  bad  press  agents. 

Every  theatrical  newspaper  man  knows  the 
anecdote  of  the  German  cornetist  en  tour  with 
a  minstrel  company.  The  organization  was 
toiling  up  a  steep  hill  that  lay  between  the  rail- 
way station  and  the  town.  The  cornetist  was 
warm  and  he  was  tired.  "The  camel's  back" 
broke  when  at  last  he  stubbed  his  toe  against  a 
stone.  Picking  up  the  obstruction,  he  threw  it 
as  far  away  as  he  could.  "Ach!"  he  exclaimed. 
"Ve  got  a  fine  advance  agent!" 


89 


THE  WRITING  AND  READING  OF 
•  PLAYS 


Being  a  discussion  as  to  which  pursuit  is  the  more  pain- 
ful, with  various  entertaining  and  instructive  remarks  as  to 
the  method  of  following  both. 


AT  my  side  lies  an  advertisement 
reading:  "I  will  teach  you  to  write 
plays  for  $10!" 
If  the  professor  means  that  he  can  teach  you 
to  write  plays  that  will  bring  you  ten  dollars, 
he  may  be  speaking  the  truth.  If  he  means 
that  for  ten  dollars,  or  a  hundred  dollars,  or 
a  hundred  thousand,  he  can  teach  you  to  write 
plays,  he  is  a  liar! 

Aunt  Emma,  who  represents  the  palmy  days 
of  the  stage,  and  "used  to  be  with  Booth  and 
Barrett",  once  gave  me  her  opinion  of  schools 
of  acting.  "One  can  learn  to  fence",  she  said, 
"and  to  walk  and  articulate  properly.  But  one 
cannot  learn  to  think  or  to  feel,  and  without 
thinking  and  feeling  there  is  no  acting."     Pre- 

90 


WRITING  AND  READING  OF  PLAYS 

cisely  the  same  thing  may  be  said  of  playwrit- 
ing. 

Of  course,  there  is  a  great  deal  that  the 
dramatist  must  know  about  drama.  W.  T. 
Price's  interesting  volume  on  the  subject  con- 
tains about  a  hundred  iron-clad  principles  that 
should  be  read,  and  re-read,  and  then  forgot- 
ten. Such  of  the  number  as  cling  to  your  sub- 
consciousness can't  do  you  any  harm,  and  prob- 
ably will  do  you  a  lot  of  good.  The  others 
might  help  to  make  you  a  capable  mechanic. 
Rostand's  rooster,  once  he  had  been  told  how 
to  crow,  couldn't  crow — fell  to  the  ground,  as 
it  were,  between  two  schools.  Bronson  How- 
ard, asked  to  compile  a  book  of  rules  for  play- 
writing,  declined  on  the  ground  that  he  feared 
being  tempted  to  follow  them. 

To  learn  to  do  anything — do  it!  If  you 
would  know  how  to  write  plays  write  them,  read 
them,  go  to  see  them.  Then  think  a  while,  and 
write  some  more.  If  you  feel  sure  you  have  a 
big  idea — and  sometimes  it  seems  to  me  that 
the  big  ideas  come  most  often  to  people  who 

9i 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

can't  use  them — pool  it  with  the  skill  of  some- 
one who  is  willing  to  give  craftsmanship  for  in- 
ventive genius— and  watch  him.  Avery  Hop- 
wood  collaborated  on  "Clothes"  before  he  went 
single-handed  at  "Nobody's  Widow",  and,  mid- 
way, he  leased  his  experience  to  the  novelist  who 
furnished  the  plot  of  "Seven  Days."  Harriet 
Ford  helped  Joseph  Medill  Patterson  write 
"The  Fourth  Estate",  and  now  Mr.  Patterson 
is  exhibiting  signs  by  which  one  may  predict 
that  he  will  do  something  alone.  Wilson  Miz- 
ner  worked  with  George  Bronson  Howard  on 
"The  Only  Law",  and  with  Paul  Armstrong  on 
'The  Deep  Purple",  and  we  may  expect  soon 
a  piece  that  will  bear  only  the  name  of  Wilson 
Mizner. 

"What  a  lucky  fellow  !"  we  say  occasionally  of 
some  new  author  who  springs  into  notice.  "His 
first  play,  and  a  huge  success!"  But  every  pro- 
fessional reader  in  town  could  tell  you  that  this 
success  wasn't  "his  first  play."  While  I  was 
reading  for  the  firm  of  Sam  S.  &  Lee  Shubert, 
I  saw  three  or  four  manuscripts  from  the  pens 

92 


WRITING  AND  READING  OF  PLAYS 

of  Rachel  Crothers  and  Thompson  Buchanan. 
"The  Three  of  Us"  did  not  surprise  me,  nor 
"A  Woman's  Way."  I  knew,  and  every  man 
in  my  profession  knew,  that  Miss  Crothers  and 
Mr.  Buchanan  had  spent  years  turning  out 
pieces  they  could  not  sell.  They  worked,  and 
they  studied,  and  they  went  to  the  theater 
thoughtfully  until  they  could  write  pieces  that 
would  sell. 

Poets  may  be  born  or  made,  according  to  the 
field  they  occupy,  but  playwrights  must  be  born 
and  made.  However,  there  isn't  the  least  use 
of  dwelling  on  this  fact.  To  the  end  of  time 
men  and  women  who  wouldn't  think  of  trying 
to  fashion  a  horseshoe  without  first  having 
served  an  apprenticeship  with  some  blacksmith 
will  go  on  endeavoring  to  create  comedies  and 
tragedies  without  having  made  the  least  effort 
to  shape  their  talents — even  to  whet  their  in- 
stincts. 

Once  upon  a  time,  in  a  speech  delivered 
somewhere,  I  said  that,  everything  else  being 
equal,   the  author  who  had  never  produced   a 

93 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

play  had  the  best  chance  of  producing  a  good 
one.  I  was  wrong.  It  is  true  that  the  new- 
comer is  likely  to  have  fresher  ideas  than  the 
old  stager,  and  that  generally  he  dramatizes  a 
lifetime  of  experience,  instead  of  dramatizing 
only  what  he  has  gleaned  between  contracts. 
That  accounts  for  the  fact  that  some  tyros  never 
repeat  their  primal  successes.  But,  even  in  this 
period  of  the  novice,  when  appreciation  of 
novelty  submerges  appreciation  of  skill,  statis- 
tics prove  that  a  majority  of  the  pronounced  hits 
are  the  work  of  established  authors. 

We  believe  the  contrary,  as  we  believe  that 
most  marriages  turn  out  badly,  because  begin- 
ners at  authorship  and  enders  of  matrimony  at- 
tract attention.  Much  was  said  of  the  novices 
who  won  laurels  last  season,  and  yet  every  sin- 
gle piece  that  ran  a  hundred  nights  or  so  on 
Broadway  was  by  an  Avery  Hopwood,  a  Win- 
chell  Smith,  or  a  David  Belasco.  Any  number 
of  brilliant  young  men  flashed  into  view,  and 
probably  will  remain  in  view,  but,  as  yet, 
of  necessity,  they  are  conspicuous   for  promise 

94 


WRITING  AND  READING  OF  PLAYS 

rather  than  for  fulfillment.  The  greatest  orig- 
inality, the  most  synthetic  ingenuity,  and  the 
sharpest  wit  were  displayed  by  H.  S.  Sheldon, 
in  "The  Havoc";  by  Philip  H.  Bartholomae,  in 
"Over  Night";  by  Anne  Caldwell,  in  "The 
Nest  Egg";  by  Tom  Barry,  in  "The  Upstart"; 
by  Al  Thomas,  in  "Her  Husband's  Wife",  and 
by  George  Bronson  Howard  and  Wilson  Miz- 
ner  in  "The  Only  Law." 

The  danger  faced  by  new  men  is  that  they 
may  be  snuffed  out  by  their  first  failures.  Such 
an  ungenerous  reception  as  was  given  "The  Up- 
start", for  example,  might  well  discourage  an 
author  to  the  utter  ruin  of  his  career.  Mana- 
gers, too,  are  likely  to  judge  by  the  box  office 
rather  than  by  the  play — an  exceedingly  short 
sighted  policy  in  a  "business"  whose  future  de- 
pends upon  the  proper  nursing  of  its  infants. 
The  fluttering  fledgling  of  today  is  the  eagle  of 
tomorrow.  Porter  Emerson  Browne,  Jules  Eck- 
ert  Goodman,  Edward  Sheldon,  Thompson 
Buchanan,  Avery  Hopwood,  James  Forbes,  the 
debutants  of  yester-year,  are  the  leading  drama- 

95 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

tists  of  this. 

Naturally,  everybody  is  trying  to  duplicate 
their  experience.  Everybody  writes  plays. 
Some  time  ago  an  ambitious  individual  walked 
into  my  office  and  announced  that  he  had  come 
from  Rochester  to  submit  a  tragedy  in  blank 
verse.  I  suggested  that  he  need  not  have  gone 
to  so  much  trouble  and  expense.  "It  wasn't  any 
trouble  or  expense",  he  replied.  "I  had  to  come 
anyway.  I'm  a  conductor  on  the  New  York 
Central." 

Theodore  Burt  Sayre,  who  wrote  "The  Com- 
manding Officer",  and  who  is  the  reader  for 
Charles  Frohman,  told  me  not  long  ago  that 
his  most  persistent  visitor  was  a  policeman,  who 
had  composed  a  farce  in  six  acts.  He  also 
showed  me  a  letter  the  author  of  which  de- 
clared"! seen  menny  plays  that  cost  a  doler  and 
wasnt  won-too-three  with  my  play."  Every 
manager  in  New  York  has  received  a  Brooklyn 
shoemaker  who  feels  certain  he  has  produced  a 
comic  opera  infinitely  superior  to  the  best  efforts 
of    (iilbcrt    and    Sullivan.      Of    the    would-be 

96 


WRITING  AND  READING  OF  PLAYS 

dramatists  in  the  learned  professions,  I  should 
say  that  physicians  are  rarest  as  playwrights, 
that  journalists  provide  the  best  material,  and 
that  clergymen  produce  the  most  and  the  worst. 
With  so  many  Cinderellas  attempting  to 
crowd  their  feet  into  the  shoes  of  Pinero  and 
Jones,  there  can  be  no  limit  to  the  number  of 
manuscripts  submitted  each  week  to  well  known 
producers.  The  general  idea,  I  believe,  is  that 
managers  are  quite  buried  beneath  piles  of  plays. 
This  is  not  absolutely  true.  Such  an  office  as 
that  of  Henry  B.  Harris,  in  the  Hudson  Thea- 
ter, or  of  The  Liebler  Company,  in  Fifth  Ave- 
nue, may  be  the  destination  of  from  six  to  ten 
manuscripts  a  week.  About  a  third  of  this  num- 
ber come  from  agents,  and  these  are  likely  to 
receive  quickest  consideration,  since  the  reader 
knows  that,  if  they  were  utterly  without  prom- 
ise, they  would  not  have  been  sent  him.  The 
crop  of  flat  and  cylindrical  packages  fluctuates 
with  altered  conditions.  The  manager  who 
makes  money  out  of  the  work  of  an  unknown 
author  is  sure  to  receive  far  more  than  his  share 

97 


THE    FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

of  contributions  during  the  next  year  or  two. 
William  A.  Brady  got  a  thousand  plays  a  month 
from  obscure  aspirants  immediately  after  the 
production  of  "  'Way  Down  East." 

It  is  a  fallacy  widely  current  among  new 
writers  that  their  "copy"  is  returned  unread. 
One  of  the  first  theatrical  stories  I  ever  heard 
concerned  a  woman  who  put  sand  between  the 
pages  of  her  rolled  manuscript  and  found  it 
there  still  when  the  piece  came  back  to  her. 
Nowadays,  when  the  demand  for  material  so 
far  exceeds  the  supply  as  to  have  become  al- 
most frantic,  it  is  true  not  only  that  every  play 
is  looked  into,  but  that  almost  every  play  is 
looked  into  by  every  manager.  Round  and 
round  the  circle  they  go,  being  judged  from  a 
hundred  viewpoints  by  a  hundred  men  who 
know  that  a  lucky  strike  means  a  for- 
tune, and  who  are  eager  in  proportion.  It  is  my 
firm  belief  that  all  the  good  plays,  not  to  speak 
of  a  fair  number  of  bad  ones,  have  been  or  are 
about  to  be  produced.  Any  piece  that  is  not 
utterly,  hopelessly  valueless  is  sure  to  find  some 

98 


'-• 


WRITING  AND  READING  OF  PLAYS 

appreciator  in  the  end.  There  are  instances  of 
manuscripts  that,  like  "My  Friend  From  India", 
travel  up  and  down  Broadway  for  years,  only 
to  be  accepted  and  staged  at  last. 

I  have  said  that  the  dramatist  who  "arrives" 
generally  has  announced  himself  first  through 
various  rolled  and  typewritten  visiting  cards. 
The  parcel  that  comes  from  Findlay,  Ohio,  or 
Omaha,  Nebraska,  bearing  the  address  of  some 
one  of  whom  the  reader  never  heard  before,  is 
pretty  certain  to  be  without  promise.  Usually, 
the  manuscript  betrays  itself  in  its  first  ten 
pages,  and  what  follows  rarely  contains  an  idea 
that  might  have  been  valuable  even  if  its  owner 
had  learned  his  trade.  When  the  manager  does 
discover  a  story  worth  while,  or  the  suggestion 
of  a  story,  usually  he  is  quick  to  put  its  origina- 
tor in  touch  with  a  literary  manicure. 

Charles  Frohman,  who  frequently  is  styled 
"The  Napoleon  of  the  Drama",  takes  no  such 
Napoleonic  chances.  If  you  will  look  over  one 
of  Mr.  Frohman's  budgets  you  will  find  that 
two-thirds  of  the  plays  he  announces  have  been 

99 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND   AFT 

presented  abroad,  and  that  the  other  third  are 
from  the  pens  of  such  celebrities  as  Augustus 
Thomas.     Naturally,  this  is  the  safe,  sane,  and 
more-or-less  sure  method,  and  yet,  even  when 
judged  from  a  purely  commercial  view-point,  it 
has  its  disadvantages.     If  the  system  does  not 
entail    such    losses    as    other    managers    suffer, 
neither  does  it  render  possible  such  gains.     Mr. 
Frohman  paid  George  Ade  royalties  for  "Just 
Out  of  College",  which  was  a  failure,  far  in  ex- 
cess of  those  granted  by  Henry  W.  Savage  for 
'The  County  Chairman."     Popular  dramatists 
turn  out  pretty  poor  stuff  at  times,  as  Mr.  Froh- 
man was  reminded  when  he  produced  William 
Gillette's   "Electricity",   and   excellent  material 
may  come  from  an  unexpected  source,  as  Wag- 
enhals   &    Kemper   discovered    when    they    pur- 
chased "Paid  in  Full"  from  a  man  whose  only 
previous  work  had  been  the  unlucky  "Sergeant 
James."     As  to  the  invariable  wisdom  of  offer- 
ing here  plays  that  were  hits  in  Paris  and  Lon- 
don, I  can  say  only  that  sometimes  we  in  Amer- 
ica differ  with  our  cousins  in  France  and  Eng- 

ioo 


WRITING  AND  READING  OF  PLAYS 

land.  We  differed  widely  in  the  cases  of  "The 
Speckled  Band",  "The  Scarlet  Pimpernel",  and 
"The  Foolish  Virgin."  It  would  appear  to  be 
a  much  safer  expedient  to  turn  over  doubtful 
pieces  to  stock  companies  in  one  provincial  city 
or  another  and  then  to  abide  by  the  result.  This 
expedient,  by  the  way,  has  the  advantage  of  be- 
ing inexpensive. 

It  is  very  difficult  to  identify  a  good  play. 
When  I  was  sixteen  years  old,  and  didn't  know 
whether  manuscripts  were  an  inch  thick  or  a 
mile,  I  felt  quite  sure  that  the  manager  who 
produced  a  bad  play  was  a  fool.  I  used  to  say 
this  frankly  in  the  newspaper  on  which  I  was 
employed,  just  as  a  lot  of  other  cock-sure  young 
men  have  been  doing  ever  since.  Latterly,  how- 
ever, I  have  observed  that  a  great  many  experi- 
enced producers  average  about  three  failures  to 
every  one  success,  and  I  leave  the  superior  at- 
titude to  the  literatti  whose  cleverness  is  valued 
by  their  employers  at  from  fifteen  to  fifty  dol- 
lars a  week.  The  late  A.  M.  Palmer,  after  a 
long  life-time  of  experience,  said  to  me:   "There 

IOI 


THE    FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND   AFT 

does  not  live  a  man  who  can  tell  a  good  play 
from  a  bad  one  by  reading  it.  If  there  were 
such  a  Solomon  he  would  be  worth  half  a  mil- 
lion dollars  per  annum  to  any  manager  in  New 
York.  Personally,  I  have  refused  so  many 
money-makers  and  accepted  so  many  money- 
losers  that  I  select  material  now-a-days  by  guess 
work.  I  tossed  a  coin  once  to  decide  whether 
or  not  I  should  buy  what  afterward  proved  to 
be  one  of  the  biggest  hits  of  my  career." 

I  have  said  that  it  is  difficult  to  indentify  a 
good  play;  it  should  not  be  difficult  to  pass  upon 
a  bad  one.  Some  of  the  things  that  reach  our 
stage  are  so  very  bad  that  nothing  in  the  fore- 
going paragraph  excuses  or  explains  their  pro- 
duction. Several  years  ago  there  was  referred 
to  me  a  romantic  drama,  written  by  a  visiting 
Englishman.  I  advised  against  it,  but  my  em- 
ployers were  determined  in  its  favor,  and  the 
piece  was  presented  soon  afterward  at  the  Prin- 
cess Theater. 

On  the  opening  night,  just  after  the  second 
act,    Louis    De    Foe,    dramatic    critic    of    The 

102 


"//  is  very  difficult  to 
identify  a  good  play" 


WRITING  AND  READING  OF  PLAYS 

World,  came  to  me,  and  said:  "I  got  here 
late,  and  so  lost  the  thread  of  the  story.  Can 
you  tell  me  what  the  play  is  about?" 

I  tried  and  failed. 

One  of  my  employers  stood  nearby.  "Let's 
ask  him?"  I  suggested.  We  did — and  he  didn't 
know.  "Haven't  you  seen  it?"  inquired  Mr.  De 
Foe. 

"Yes",  quoth  the  manager,  "and  I've  read 
it,  and — and  it  has  something  to  do  with  love, 
but  I — I  forget  the  details."  He  suggested  that 
we  wait  until  after  the  performance  and  speak 
to  the  author. 

That  gentleman  told  us  that  the  story  con- 
cerned a  soldier  of  fortune,  who  was  about  to 
do  something  or  other — I  don't  remember  what 
— when  he  received  a  letter  that  altered  his  in- 
tentions. 

"So  I  observed",  said  Mr.  De  Foe.  "But 
why  should  it  have  altered  them  ?  What  was  in 
the  letter?" 

The  author  looked  at  him  blankly.  "By 
Jove!"  he  explained.     "I  don't  know.     I  never 

105 


THE    FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

thought  of  that!" 

The  next  day  he  drafted  a  letter  that  would 
explain  matters  and  asked  me  to  have  it  printed 
in  the  program.  But,  as  the  piece  was  to  close 
the  following  night,  it  didn't  seem  worth  while. 

Of  course,  no  play  as  bad  as  this  should  ever 
find  its  way  to  the  footlights,  and  yet  I  am 
obliged  to  confess  that  a  great  many  do.  In 
fact,  fifteen  years  of  observation  have  forced  me 
to  the  conclusion  that  the  finer  the  texture  of  a 
play,  the  more  unusual  its  theme,  the  smaller 
the  author's  chance  of  finding  a  manager  for 
it.  Also,  one  must  admit,  the  smaller  that  man- 
ager's chance  of  finding  a  public.  Though  they 
are  not  so  numerous  as  one  would  like  to  see 
them,  we  have  producers  of  keen  artistic  sensi- 
bilities; some  of  them,  like  Charles  Frohman, 
George  Tyler,  Henry  B.  Harris,  David  Belasco, 
Henry  Miller  and  Wagenhals  &  Kemper,  men 
who  are  not  averse  to  losing  money  on  a  worthy 
enterprise  or,  at  least,  to  taking  a  long  chance 
of  making  it.  For  these  men  we  should  be 
grateful,    and,    though    the    New    Theater    has 

106 


WRITING  AND  READING  OF  PLAYS 

brought  out  nothing  remarkable  from  an  un- 
tried pen,  we  should  be  grateful,  too,  for  an  in- 
stitution whose  purpose  is  producing  the  best, 
whether  the  best  is  profitable  or  not. 

So  many  mental  qualities  are  essential  to  the 
correct  appraisal  of  a  play.     For  one  thing,  the 
manager  must  see  not  only  what  it  is  but  what 
it  may  become.    Often  the  hardest  work  in  play- 
writing  has  to  be  done  after  the  play  has  been 
produced.      Pieces   that  seemed   hopeless  when 
they  were  acted  initially  have  been  turned  into 
huge    successes.     Scenes    are    switched    about, 
lines  changed,  often  whole  acts  reconstructed.    I 
know  a  woman  who  was  compelled  to  cut  her 
play  in  half  after  it  was  produced.     Ordinarily 
one  minute  is  required  to  act  each  page  of  type- 
written manuscript,  but  this  work,  which  con- 
tained only  one  hundred  and  fifty  pages,   ran 
nearly  five  hours.      Difficult  as  such  condensa- 
tion must  have  been,  the  task  that  confronted 
the  author  in  question  was  not  to  be  compared 
with  that  of  lengthening  a  play.   It  is  not  advis- 
able for  embryonic  dramatists  to  cut  too  close- 

107 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

ly  according  to  pattern.  To  tone  down  a  strong 
play  or  shorten  a  long  one  is  easy;  to  build  up  a 
weak  play  or  successfully  pad  out  a  short  one  is 
impossible. 

Most  of  the  manuscripts  that  come  to  the 
desk  of  the  reader  do  not  prompt  sufficient  doubt 
for  any  manager  to  be  willing  to  try  them.  A 
great  many  would  seem  to  be  the  product  of 
lunatics.  Not  long  ago  I  had  a  dramatization 
of  a  Russian  novel  that  contained  eleven  acts 
and  twenty-one  scenes.  The  adapter  simply  had 
melted  down  the  whole  six  hundred  pages  of 
fiction  and  was  trying  to  pour  it  onto  the  stage. 
Another  offering,  called  "The  Dogs  of  Infidel- 
ity", proved  to  be  an  argument  against  atheism 
in  five  acts  and  seven  scenes.  The  scoundrel  of 
this  masterpiece  was  Robert  G.  Ingersol,  and 
the  play  was  accompanied  by  a  cartoon  showing 
the  agnostic  fleeing  from  two  police  officers, 
marked  "Logic"  and  "Sarcasm",  who  were  pur- 
suing him  at  the  bidding  of  Justice,  in  the  per- 
son of  the  author.  Beneath  this  picture  were 
typewritten  the  favorable  opinions  of  a  number 

108 


"A  woman  who  was  compelled 
to  cut  her  play  in  half 


WRITING  AND  READING  OF  PLAYS 

of  people  who  claimed  to  have  read  the  piece. 
Standing  in  the  center  of  the  stage,  the  villain 
of  a  melodrama  still  in  my  possession  is  supposed 
to  commit  suicide  by  exploding  a  dynamite  car- 
tridge in  his  mouth.  Beneath  the  directions  for 
this  bit  of  business,  the  author  has  written: 
"The  performance  concludes  here."  I  should 
think  it  might! 

Of  course,  it  is  not  often  that  one  gets  plays 
as  absurd  as  these.  If  it  were,  the  reading  of 
manuscript  would  not  be  so  dull  and  profitless  a 
task.  The  ordinary  play  is  notable  only  for  its 
crudity,  its  artificiality,  its  lack  of  color,  and  its 
hopeless  failure  to  rise  above  the  conventional 
and  the  commonplace.  Dramatists  follow  each 
other  like  sheep,  and  the  smaller  the  dramatist 
happens  to  be  the  more  closely  he  follows.  Thus 
it  is  that  whenever  somebody  produces  a  piece 
with  a  situation  that  creates  comment,  every 
second  manuscript  one  reads  from  that  time  on 
contains  exactly  the  same  situation.  A  long 
while  ago  I  grew  so  much  interested  in  the  like- 
ness between  plot  and  plot  that  I  catalogued  two 

in 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS-FORE   AND  AFT 

hundred  plays  according  to  their  general  char- 
acter.    The  result  was  as  follows: 

Dramas  in    which    woman    goes    to    man's 

rooms  at  midnight 37 

in  which  woman  betrays  man  and 
then  saves  him 19 

in  which  wronged  woman  gives  evi- 
dence at  end  of  play 6 

in  which  man  unwittingly  falls  in 
love  with  woman  meant  for  him     9 

in  which  woman  unwittingly  falls 
in  love  with  man  meant  for  her       3 

in  which  wealth  is  unexpectedly 
derived  from  a  mine  or  a  patent   22 

built  on  the  question  of  "love  or 
duty"    24 

built  on  the  question  of  the  fitness 
of  a  reformed  man  or  woman 
to  marry    16 

in   which  man   or  woman   reforms 

the  person  he  or  she  loves 3 

Comedies  in  which  husband  or  wife  ends 

1 12 


<< 


u 


(C 


It 


WRITING  AND  READING  OF  PLAYS 

the  philandering  of  wife  or  husband 

by  seeming  to  condone  it 20 

Farces  based  on  mistaken  identity 31 

built  around  the  necessity  of  a  man 
lying  to  his  wife 28 

The  total  of  the  table  is  not  two  hundred,  be- 
cause several  of  these  plays  had  none  of  the 
features  mentioned,  while  others  had  more  than 
one. 

Of  course,  it  is  well-nigh  impossible  for  any 
dramatist,  no  matter  how  well-meaning,  to  de- 
vise unparalleled  characters,  situations  and  stor- 
ies. Just  as  the  fact  that  there  are  only  so  many 
notes  in  the  scale  has  been  urged  as  an  excuse 
for  composers  whose  music  is  reminiscent,  so  I 
would  insist  that  there  are  only  so  many  strings 
in  the  heart.  There  is  a  limit  to  the  number  of 
situations  that  can  be  brought  about  in  real  life, 
and,  of  course,  there  is  a  much  more  definite 
limit  to  the  number  of  these  situations  which 
have  dramatic  value.  In  certain  elemental  facts 
all    plays    must    be    alike.      For    example,    it 

113 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

is  inevitable  that  a  large  number  of  plays  shall 
have  what  is  known  as  the  "dramatic  triangle" 
—which  means  the  conflict  of  two  men  and 
a  woman  or  of  two  women  and  a  man.  It  is  in- 
evitable that  a  great  majority  of  plays  shall  deal 
with  that  one  great  elemental  emotion— love. 
Once,  when  I  was  very  young  indeed,  I  experi- 
mented in  writing  a  comedy  in  which  nobody 
was  in  love.  The  piece  was  presented  in  Wash- 
ington, and,  to  the  best  of  my  recollection,  it 
lasted  two  consecutive  nights.  This  convinced 
me  that  there  might  be  a  line  beyond  which  one 
could  not  go  in  the  effort  to  be  unique. 

There  are  a  great  number  of  things,  however, 
that  are  so  hackneyed  and  conventional  that  it 
is  no  longer  possible  for  an  author  to  attempt 
them.  I  do  not  think  any  manager  would  buy 
another  play  in  which  the  crucial  situation  was 
the  concealment  of  the  heroine  in  the  apartments 
of  the  hero  or  the  villain.  From  time  immemor- 
ial this  has  been  the  stock  episode  for  the  third 
act  climax  in  a  four  act  play,  and  audiences 
have  begun  to  expect  it  as  they  expect  supper  af- 

114 


WRITING  AND  READING  OF  PLAYS 

ter  the  fourth  act.     Personally,  I  am  free  to  con- 
fess that  I  should  not  be  likely  to  recommend  the 
purchase  of  any  drama  in  which  the  conclusion 
of  the  third  act  did  not  bring  a  surprise  calcu- 
lated to  make  an  audience  sit  up  and  take  notice. 
No  author  of  today  would  dare  begin  his  work 
with  a  conversation  between  a  maid  and  a  butler. 
Neither  would  he   care  to  conceal  one  of  his 
characters  behind  a  screen  or  to  conclude  his 
play  with   the   finding  of  a  bundle  of  papers. 
The   cigarette   is   still   the   hero   of  the  society 
drama,  and  it  is  still  true  on  the  stage  that  the 
happy  conclusion  of  the  love  affair  between  the 
juvenile  and  the   ingenue   usually  is  coincident 
with  the  conclusion  of  the  love  affair  between 
the  leading  man  and  the  leading  woman.     We 
begin  to  have  heroes  who  are  not  too  angelically 
good,  however,  and  villains  who  have  motives 
more  human  than  the  mere  desire  to  be  beastly 
and  draw  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a  week 
for  it.     Very  slowly  and  gradually  the  perfect 
woman,    the    high-hatted    knave,    the    wronged 
girl,  the  comic  Irishman,  the  naval  lieutenant  of 

115 


THE    FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND   AFT 

comic  opera,  the  English  butler  and  their  asso- 
ciates are  passing  from  our  midst.  Peace  to 
their  ashes ! 

Plays  have  their  epochs,  just  as  books  do,  and 
there  are  fashions  in  the  drama  as  pronounced 
as  those  in  dress.  Always  one  successful  work 
of  a  particular  class  brings  about  a  host  of  imi- 
tations, and,  for  a  time,  it  seems  as  though  the 
public  would  never  tire  of  that  particular  kind 
of  entertainment.  "The  Prisoner  of  Zenda" 
was  responsible  for  a  hundred  romances  laid  in 
mythical  kingdoms;  "Lady  Windimere's  Fan" 
brought  drawing  room  comedy  into  vogue ; 
"  'Way  Down  East"  bred  a  perfect  epidemic 
of  pastorals;  "Sherlock  Holmes"  created  a 
demand  for  plays  concerning  criminals.  All 
of  these  varieties  of  entertainment,  save  possi- 
bly the  last,  have  been  laid  on  the  shelf,  and 
we  now  are  going  in  vigorously  for  frothy  farce 
and  comic  opera  in  long  skirts.  The  manner  in 
which  one  author  follows  the  lead  of  another, 
as  demonstrated  above,  extends  beyond  the  se- 
lection of  such  important  things  as  stories,  and 

116 


WRITING  AND  READING  OF  PLAYS 

reaches  even  to  titles.  Ten  years  ago  we  couldn't 
have  a  name  without  the  word  "of"  in  it.  On 
the  bill-boards  were  advertised  "The  White- 
washing of  Julia",  "The  Manoeuvres  of  Jane", 
"The  Superstitions  of  Sue",  "The  Stubborn- 
ness of  Geraldine"  and  a  score  of  others.  Then 
somebody  christened  a  charming  sketch  "Hop- 
o'-My-Thumb",  and  for  a  while  it  seemed  that 
we  could  get  nothing  but  hyphenated  titles,  such 
as  "Alice-Sit-by-the-Fire"  and  "All-of-a-Sudden- 
Peggy."  Now-a-days  the  vogue  seems  to  be  the 
combination  of  an  article  and  a  noun — "The 
Boss",  "The  Nigger",  "The  Gamblers"  and 
"The  Concert." 

Please  do  not  understand  that,  in  calling  at- 
tention to  these  similarities,  I  intend  to  accuse 
anyone  of  plagiarism.  Deliberate  theft  of  ideas 
from  contemporary  offerings  is  likely  to  result 
in  law-suits,  and  I  don't  believe  that  there  are 
left  in  the  printed  dramas  any  ideas  worth  steal- 
ing. I  used  to  hear  an  interesting  story  of  Paul 
Potter's  writing  original  plays  in  the  Boston 
Public  Library,  but  it  seemed  to  me  that  much  of 

117 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

his  work  was  too  good  to  have  been  filched 
from  the  old  fellows  whose  publishers  bound 
their  vulgarity,  their  leaden  dialogue  and  their 
uningenious  situations  in  yellow  covers.  It  is 
very  difficult,  as  I  have  said,  to  squeeze  new  sit- 
uations out  of  a  dull  world,  from  the  manners 
and  morals  of  which  about  four  hundred  dramas 
have  been  pressed  every  year  during  the  past 
half  century.  It  is  especially  hard  to  devise 
original  material  in  America,  where  prudish  re- 
strictions hedge  us  about  and  anything  deep  and 
vital  in  life  immediately  is  set  down  as  immoral. 
American  authors  cannot  wring  novel  in- 
cidents from  the  emotions;  they  must  profit  by 
such  circumstances  as  the  invention  of  wireless 
telegraphy  and  the  automobile.  The  telephone 
and  the  motor  car  are  speedily  becoming  bul- 
warks of  the  drama  in  the  United  States! 

The  possibility  of  giving  subtle  and  original 
treatment  to  familiar  phases  of  life,  together 
with  the  attendant  possibility  of  revealing  human 
nature  in  the  theater,  hold  forth  the  chief  prom- 
ise along  this  line.      Clever  twisting  and  turn- 

118 


WRITING  AND  READING  OF  PLAYS 

ing  will  make  a  new  incident  from  an  old  one,  as 
is  best  demonstrated  in  what  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher  did  with  Lope  de  Vega  when  they 
adapted  "Sancho  Ortez"  into  "The  Custom  of 
the  Country",  and  playwrights  are  learning  to 
turn  little  things  to  vital  account  in  the  construc- 
tion of  their  plays.  A  glance  at  a  photograph 
now-a-days  is  made  to  convey  all  what  was  in- 
dicated in  a  five-minutes  talk  between  butler  and 
maid  twenty  years  ago. 

As  to  the  matter  of  heart  interest,  that,  after 
all,  is  the  thing  that  counts  most,  and  that  is 
eternal  and  inexhaustible.  Charles  Klein,  author 
of  "The  Music  Master",  put  this  to  me  neatly 
not  long  ago  in  an  attempt  to  prove  the  advan- 
tage of  the  realistic  drama  over  the  romantic. 
"Supposing  a  man  comes  to  you",  he  remarked, 
"and  says  that  his  wife  has  just  fallen  out  of  a 
balloon.  You're  not  sorry,  because  you  can't 
understand  why  his  wife  should  have  gone  up 
in  a  balloon.  Let  the  same  man  say  to  you,  how- 
ever, that  he  is  out  of  a  position  and  that  his 
family  is  starving,  and  see  how  quickly  the  tears 

119 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

will  come  into  your  eyes.  So  far  as  modern  au- 
diences are  concerned,  the  old  duel-fighting, 
hose-wearing  romantic  heroes  are  up  in  a  balloon. 
We  want  sorrows  and  joys  we  can  compre- 
hend." 

It  is  this  creed  that  makes  the  new  drama- 
tist an  entity  worth  seeking.  If  it  proves  diffi- 
cult to  discover  him  among  the  thousands  who 
write  plays,  it  at  least  is  worth  while  to  culti- 
vate him  when  he  is  found  among  those  who 
write  promising  plays.  "By  their  works  ye 
shall  know  them"  is  particularly  applicable  to 
the  men  who  will  some  day  succeed  Barrie  and 
Pinero.  They  will  bear  watching.  If  I  were  a 
producing  manager  I  should  keep  in  touch  with 
the  men  whose  first  pieces  indicate  the  possession 
of  ability.  I  would  set  them  at  work,  not  at 
tailoring  plays  to  fit  personalities,  but  at  real- 
izing their  ideas  and  their  ideals.  Certainly  this 
great  country  is  full  of  material  waiting  for 
dramatization,  and  it  must  be  equally  true  that 
it  is  full  of  authors  capable  of  accomplishing 
the  task.     They  will  not  be  the  illiterate  glory- 

120 


WRITING  AND  READING  OF  PLAYS 

hunters  who  deluge  theatrical  offices  with  their 
manuscripts,  nor  will  they  be  the  celebrities 
whose  brains  have  been  pressed  dry.  It  were 
wise  to  look  for  them  among  the  people  whose 
professions  draw  them  into  close  touch  with  the 
real  world  and  the  theater;  among  the  news- 
paper men  and  the  enthusiastic  play-lovers; 
among  those  whose  first  and  second  efforts  are 
now  the  financial  failures  on  Broadway. 


121 


THE  PERSONALITIES  OF  OUR  PLAY- 
WRIGHTS 

Being  an  effort  to  out  do  Ernest  Thompson  Seton  and 
Charles  G.  D.  Roberts  at  their  own  game— which  is  speak- 
ing literally. 

NOT  long  ago  an  intelligent  young 
man  walked  into  a  meeting  of  the 
Society  of  American  Dramatists 
and  Composers,  at  the  Hotel  Astor,  and,  after 
scanning  the  faces  about  him,  inquired:  "Is 
this  the  Cloak  and  Suit  Manufacturers'  Asso- 
ciation?" 

Don't  blame  the  young  man.  If  tomorrow 
you  undertook  on  a  wager  to  tell  a  prosperous 
tailor  from  a  celebrated  author,  your  safest 
plan  would  be  to  select  the  individual  who  look- 
ed more  like  a  tailor,  and  say:  "That  is  the 
author!"  Among  persons  whose  acquaintances 
do  not  figure  in  the  public  prints,  except  as 
"Old  Subscriber"  or  "Vox  Populi",  the  play- 
wright is  still  supposed  to  be  distinguishable  by 

122 


PERSONALITIES  OF  PLAYWRIGHTS 

long,  curly  hair,  a  flowing  tie,  a  high  hat,  and 
a  frock  coat,  worn  with  the  right  hand  inserted 
in  the  space  between  the  first  and  second  but- 
tons. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  this  description  fits  only 
the  quack  doctor  and  the  vender  of  patent  med- 
icines. There  are  flowing-tie  playwrights,  but 
generally  they  belong  in  the  ranks  of  the  inef- 
fectual and  the  unproduced.  One  sees  them  of- 
tener  at  studio  teas  than  at  "first  nights."  In 
whatever  other  respects  they  may  differ,  our 
dramatists  are  pretty  much  alike  as  regards  the 
commonplaceness  of  their  manner  and  appear- 
ance. Most  of  them  regard  the  writing  of 
plays  as  a  business,  and  go  about  it  as  a  baker 
goes  about  making  his  loaves  or  a  plumber 
about  mending  a  pipe. 

On  the  whole,  it  is  easy  to  understand  the 
disappointment  of  a  hero-worshipper  to  whom 
a  companion  pointed  out  Charles  Klein.  The 
author  of  a  dozen  successful  pieces  tells  the 
story  with  great  gusto.  "It  was  on  a  ferry 
boat,"  he  relates,  "and  two  young  chaps  were 

123 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

standing  near  the  forward  doors.  As  I  strolled 
past,  one  of  them  remarked:  'That's  the  fel- 
low that  wrote  "The  Gamblers."  ' 

"My  chest  had  already  begun  to  expand 
when  I  caught  the  rejoinder.  'Him !'  exclaimed 
the  other.     'Well,  I'll  be  damned!'  " 

Augustus  Thomas  and  David  Belasco  are 
two  dramatists  who  would  rob  no  layman  of  his 
illusions.  Mr.  Belasco,  whose  clerical  collar 
and  spiritual  face  have  been  pictured  in  num- 
berless newspapers  and  magazines,  looks  every 
inch  a  poet,  and  his  soft  voice  and  far-away 
manner  help  sustain  the  impression.  Mr. 
Thomas  more  evidently  belongs  to  our  own 
mundane  sphere;  he  is  a  man  of  the  world,  dis- 
tinguished by  his  poise  and  polish,  by  the  suav- 
ity, reserve  and  equilibrium  that  come  with  con- 
fidence and  after  long  experience.  The  late 
Clyde  Fitch  had  these  qualities,  too.  He  was 
an  artist  to  his  finger  tips,  a  thinker  of  fine 
thoughts  and  a  dreamer  of  great  dreams.  This 
article  originally  began  with  an  account  of  him, 
and,  since  Clyde  Fitch  was  much  more  than  a 

124 


PERSONALITIES  OF  PLAYWRIGHTS 

transient  figure  in  our  theater,  I  see  no  reason 
why  he  should  be  left  out  of  it  now. 

"Mr.  Fitch",  I  wrote  the  day  he  sailed  for 
France,  never  to  return,  uis  the  son  of  a  fomi- 
er  army  officer,  forty-four  years  old,  graduated 
from  Amherst  College,  and  has  spent  much  of 
his  life  traveling  about  Europe.  He  is  quite 
tall,  rather  thickly  built,  and  has  a  heavy,  dark 
mustache.  My  acquaintance  with  him  dates 
from  the  performance  of  my  first  original  com- 
edy, 'The  Little  Gray  Lady',  and  is  due  to  a 
friendly  feeling  for  the  new-comers  in  his  pro- 
fession that  is  one  of  his  finest  traits. 

"  'The  Little  Gray  Lady'  was  being  present- 
ed in  the  Garrick  Theater,  and  I  was  some- 
what excited,  the  morning  after  its  premiere,  at 
learning  that  a  box  had  been  secured  for  Mr. 
Fitch.  That  night  I  stationed  myself  across  the 
auditorium,  so  that  I  might  judge  how  he  en- 
joyed the  entertainment.  My  heart  almost 
stopped  beating  when,  soon  after  the  curtain 
lifted,  the  object  of  my  interest  arose  from  his 
seat,  and  manifested  every  intention  of  depart- 

125 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

ing-  'Good  heaven !'  I  exclaimed  to  myself.  'Is 
the  piece  as  contemptible  as  that?  And,  even 
if  it  is,  what  an  affront;  what  a  rude  thing  to 
do!'  My  mortification  was  short-lived.  Mr. 
Fitch  and  his  party  did  walk  out  of  their  box, 
but  only  to  take  orchestra  chairs,  from  which 
they  had  a  better  view  of  the  stage.  The  next 
morning  I  received  a  generous  letter.  '  "The 
Little  Gray  Lady"  is  a  big  "Little  Lady",  I 
think.'  And  would  I  lunch  tomorrow  at  Mr. 
Fitch's  town  house,  in  East  Fortieth  Street? 

"This  house  has  afforded  a  wide-open  outlet 
for  it  owner's  constitutional  lavishness,  and  is, 
perhaps,  as  luxuriously  appointed  and  as  ex- 
quisitely fitted  as  any  residence  of  its  size  in 
New  York.  Mr.  Fitch  loves  beautiful  things, 
and  invests  in  them  with  a  prodigality  that 
would  frighten  the  heirs  of  a  copper  king.  'It 
doesn't  matter  how  much  money  I  make,'  he 
said  to  me  one  afternoon.  'I  spend  a  big  in- 
come as  quickly  as  a  little  one.'  The  Fortieth 
Street  domicile  is  literally  crowded  with  paint- 
ings,  carvings,    ceramics,    and   other   objects   of 

126 


PERSONALITIES  OF  PLAYWRIGHTS 

art.  A  gentleman  who  dined  there  recently  had 
his  attention  attracted  by  three  curiously 
wrought  cigarette  cases  that  stood  on  the  table, 
one  at  each  plate.  He  supposed  them  to  be 
beaten  brass,  set  with  rhine  stones,  and  was 
amazed  when  his  wife  discovered  that  they 
were  of  solid  gold  and  diamonds.  'Their  in- 
trinsic worth,'  he  said,  'could  not  have  been  less 
than  ten  thousand  dollars.  Imagine  my  horror 
when  I  remembered  that  I  had  been  on  the 
point  of  inquiring  whether  they  were  meant  to 
be  dinner  favors  V 

"Mr.  Fitch  maintains  two  establishments  be- 
side the  place  in  New  York;  one  at  Greenwich, 
called  Quiet  Corners— a  young  woman  I  know 
insists  upon  speaking  of  it  as  'Cozy  Corners' — 
and  the  other  an  estate  of  two  hundred  acres  at 
Katohna,  in  Westchester  County.  James 
Forbes,  who  wrote  'The  Chorus  Lady'  and  'Th^ 
Travelling  Saleman',  relates  an  experience  of 
a  visit  to  the  former  residence.  Here  he  found 
a  stable,  which,  in  lieu  of  horses,  held  hundreds 
of  masterpieces  in  marble  and  bronze  which  the 

127 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND   AFT 

collector  had  not  been  able  to  resist  purchasing, 
but  for  which  he  had  no  room  in  his  house ! 

"Managers  who  make  contracts  with  Clyde 
Fitch  will  tell  you  that  he  appreciates  the  value 
of  money,  but  that  commodity  certainly  doesn't 
cling  long  to  his  fingers.  However,  a  responsi- 
ble man  can  afford  to  be  irresponsible,  and  an 
industrious  man  to  be  extravagant.  Mr.  Fitch 
has  written  fifty-four  plays  in  less  than  twenty 
years,  an  average  of  one  play  every  four 
months !  When  you  stop  to  consider  that  an 
ordinary  manuscript  consists  of  about  one  hun- 
dred and  thirty  typed  pages,  and  that  each  piece 
must  be  thought  out,  drafted  and  re-drafted, 
rehearsed  and  produced  you  will  admit  that  the 
labor  involved  in  making  such  a  record  must 
have  been  Herculean. 

"Nevertheless,  Mr.  Fitch  never  seems  to  be 
hurried  or  worried.  He  entertains  a  good 
deal,  goes  to  the  theater  frequently,  and  takes 
a  boyish  interest  in  trifles.  It  is  this  interest 
that  fills  his  work  with  human  touches,  the  small 
topicalities    of    the    moment.      I    saw    him    one 

128 


'Clyde  Fitch's  ability  to 
work  under  any  circumstances" 


PERSONALITIES  OF  PLAYWRIGHTS 

night  at  The  Three  Twins',  and  he  commented 
laughingly  upon  the  catchiness  of  the  song, 
'Cuddle  Just  a  Little  Closer.'  Two  months  la- 
ter I  found  that  air  as  the  motif,  almost  the 
Wagnerian  theme,  of  his  comedy,  'The  Bache- 
lor.' 

"The  secret  of  the  Fitch  productiveness  un- 
doubtedly lies  in  his  ability  to  work  under  any 
circumstances,  in  odd  moments.  Austin  Strong, 
author  of  'The  Toymaker  of  Nuremberg',  and 
one  or  two  other  guests  were  spending  a  rainy 
week-end  in  the  living  room  at  Katohna,  when 
their  host  excused  himself,  and,  sitting  at  a  desk 
the  other  side  of  the  room,  began  writing.  'Go 
on  talking',  he  said;  'you  don't  bother  me.'    He 
had  plunged  into  the  second  act  scene  between 
Mabel   Barrison  and  Charles  Dickson  in  'The 
Blue  Mouse',  and  he  finished  it  that  afternoon. 
Mr.   Forbes  saw  him  one  morning  in  Venice, 
gliding  about  in  a  gondola  and  scribbling  as  fast 
as  his  pencil  could  cover  the  pages.     That  ex- 
quisite bit  of  'The  Girl  Who  Has  Everything', 
in  which  Eleanor  Robson  punished  little  Don- 

131 


THE    FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND   AFT 

aid  Gallagher  by  compelling  him  to  strike  her, 
was  indited  upon  a  pocket  pad  while  the  chauf- 
feur was  repairing  the  playwright's  car,  which 
had  broken  down  between  Greenwich  and  New 
York. 

"Mr.  Fitch  abrogates  to  himself  the  task 
of  producing  his  works,  taking  personal  charge 
of  everything,  from  the  selection  of  the  com- 
pany to  the  designing  of  color  schemes  and  the 
purchase  of  five  and  ten  cent  articles  of  bric-a- 
brac.  Most  people  have  heard  of  his  skill  at 
rehearsal.  He  and  Mr.  Thomas  are  two  of 
the  best  stage  managers  in  America.  Seated 
quietly  in  a  corner  of  the  auditorium,  or  stand- 
ing just  back  of  the  footlights,  Mr.  Fitch  gives 
the  directions  that  make  his  performances  per- 
fect mosaics  of  marvelously  life-like  minutae. 
Of  stories  bearing  upon  his  quick  perception, 
his  instinct  for  detail,  and  his  understanding  of 
cause  and  effect  there  are  enough  to  make  a 
saga,  but  one  anecdote  will  serve  the  purpose 
of  this  article. 

"It  was  at  the  dress  rehearsal  of  'Girls',  to- 

132 


PERSONALITIES  OF  PLAYWRIGHTS 

ward  the  end  of  the  first  act,  when  the  young 
women  were  climbing  into  their  roosts  and  say- 
ing 'good  night.'  A  property  man  appeared 
with  a  radiator,  which  the  author  had  insisted 
upon  having  in  the  setting,  'because  I  never 
saw  a  flat  without  one.'  The  stage  hand  set 
down  his  burden  and  was  about  to  tip  toe  into 
the  wings,  when  he  was  stopped  by  a  sharp 
command.     'Wait!'  exclaimed  Mr.   Fitch. 

"The  property  man  waited.  'Excuse  me', 
he  muttered.     'I  didn't  mean  to  interrupt — ' 

"'Never  mind  that!'  the  dramatist  con- 
tinued. 'Look  here !  Miss  Maycliffe  says 
"Goodnight!"  You  wait  two  seconds  and  then 
hammer  like  blazes  on  a  piece  of  iron  behind 
that  radiator.  I  want  the  noise  that  steam 
makes  in  the  pipes — ' 

"'I'm  on!'  grinned  the  property  man.  So 
were  the  others.  Everybody  in  that  house  had 
been  awakened  in  the  dead  of  night  by  the  mali- 
cious clanking  of  the  steam  pipes,  and  everybody 
recognized  the  bit  of  every-day.  The  audience  the 
next  night  was  not  less  quick  of  perception,  and 

J33 


THE    FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

• 

the  diversion  proved,  as  you  probably  know,  to 
be  one  of  the  most  effective  bits  of  comedy  in 
'Girls.'  " 

All  this  was  written  two  years  ago.     Quiet 
Corners   and   The   Other   House   are   deserted 
now,  and  the  beautiful  things  that  filled  them, 
and  the  residence  in  Fortieth  Street,  have  been 
distributed.    A  part  of  the  collection  was  willed 
to  the  Metropolitan  Museum.     It  is  pathetic  to 
reflect  that  the  first  Fitch  play  to  win  unquali- 
fied praise  from  the  critics  was  produced  after 
the  death  of  its  author.     Yet  "The  City"  was 
not   a    better   piece    than    "The    Climbers",    or 
"Her    Own    Way",    or    "The    Girl    With    the 
Green  Eyes",  or  "The  Truth."     Clyde  Fitch 
was  dead;  therein  lay  the  difference.     The  liv- 
ing Clyde  Fitch  always  was  treated  by  the  jour- 
nalistic reviewers  as  a  sort  of  malefactor,  as  a 
man    whose    deliberate    intent    was    to    do   bad 
work.     Only  his  intimates  know  how  keenly  he 
felt  this.      "Newspaper  praise,"  he  said  to  me 
once,  "is  for  the  dramatist  on  his  way  up  or  his 
way  down;  never  for  the  dramatist  at  the  top." 

134 


PERSONALITIES  OF  PLAYWRIGHTS 

Clyde  Fitch  was  the  most  brilliant  man  who 
ever  wrote  for  the  stage  in  America.  Heaven 
rest  his  soul ! 

Augustus  Thomas  conducts  rehearsals  from 
an  orchestra  stall  in  the  body  of  the  theater, 
whence  he  shouts  instructions  through  a  mega- 
phone. I  have  often  printed  the  story  of  the 
retort  courteous  which  he  is  said  to  have  made 
to  J.  J.  Shubert  when  that  impressario  inter- 
rupted a  rehearsal  of  "The  Witching  Hour", 
but,  in  this  connection,  perhaps  the  tale  will 
bear  repetition. 

According  to  my  informant,  the  author  of 
"Arizona"  was  intent  upon  a  serious  scene  when 
Mr.  Shubert,  who  was  financially  interested  in 
the  production,  stopped  the  players,  and,  turn- 
ing to  Mr.  Thomas,  remarked:  "I  think  this 
would  be  a  good  place  for  some  witty  dia- 
logue." 

"Yes?"  replied  Mr.  Thomas.  "As  for  in- 
stance?" 

He  is  a  bold  and  a  foolish  man  who  throws 
himself  upon  the  point  of  the  playwright's  ver- 

135 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND   AFT 

bal  poignard,  for,  among  those  who  know  him, 
Mr.  Thomas  is  as  famous  for  his  skill  with 
speech  as  for  his  skill  with  the  pen.  He  smiles 
as  he  thrusts,  but  the  results  are  none  the  less 
sanguinary.  "I  thought  Thomas  was  a  man", 
Paul  Armstrong  is  reported  to  have  said  of 
him,  "until  I  saw  him  take  a  handkerchief  from 
his  sleeve.  Men  have  hip  pockets  for  their 
handkerchiefs." 

"I  had,"  quoth  Mr.  Thomas,  when  he  heard 
the  remark,  "until  I  began  to  have  my  clothes 
made  by  a  good  tailor  1" 

This  ready  wit  makes  the  dramatist  one  of 
the  best,  if  not  the  best  post  prandial  speaker  in 
New  York.  Never  a  banquet  at  which  he  talks 
but  the  street  rings  the  next  day  with  quips  of 
his  making.  "The  trouble  with  amateur  car- 
vers", he  said  at  the  Friars'  dinner  to  John 
Drew,  "is  that  the  gravy  so  rarely  matches  the 
wall  paper."  On  another  occasion  he  charact- 
erized a  fatuous  argument  as  being  "like  a 
chorus  girl's  tights,  which  touch  every  point  and 
cover  nothing." 

136 


"Augustus  Thomas  shouts 
instructions  through  a  megaphone1' 


PERSONALITIES  OF  PLAYWRIGHTS 

Mr.  Thomas  finds  time  for  many  activities 
outside  of  his  profession.  Everyone  knows  of 
his  energetic  work  for  the  cause  of  William 
Jennings  Bryan.  Throughout  the  three  Bry- 
an campaigns  the  dramatist  made  speeches, 
organized  political  meetings,  and  otherwise 
labored  beneath  the  standard  of  the  Com- 
moner. Mr.  Thomas'  long  suit  is  organ- 
izing. Upon  the  death  of  Bronson  Howard, 
he  succeeded  to  the  presidency  of  the  American 
Dramatists'  Club,  which  he  has  metamorphosed 
into  the  Society  of  American  Dramatists  and 
Composers.  The  parent  body  was  deep  in  the 
slough  of  despond,  seeming  to  have  no  other 
purpose  than  proving  that  genius  really  is  an 
infinite  capacity  for  taking  food.  Mr.  Thom- 
as awakened  the  fraternal  spirit,  got  commit- 
tees to  work  on  suggestions  for  plan  and  scope, 
benevolently  assimilated  a  club  of  women  play- 
wrights, and  created  an  association  that  is  like- 
ly to  be  a  power,  instead  of  being  merely  a  pow- 
wow, in  the  land. 

The  greater  part  of  the  year,   Mr.  Thomas 

139 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS^FORE   AND  AFT 

lives  at  New  Rochelle,  but  during  the  summer 
he  goes  frequently  to  his  cottage,  The  Dingle, 
at  East  Hampton.  He  is  a  man  fifty  years  old, 
and  of  particularly  striking  appearance.  Tall, 
finely  proportioned,  smooth-shaven,  with  reso- 
lute face  and  hair  just  beginning  to  turn  white, 
he  would  be  observed  in  any  gathering.  As  I 
have  said,  his  manner  is  marked  by  complete 
self-possession,  and  a  good  deal  of  self-satisfac- 
tion. To  this  he  certainly  is  entitled.  A  close 
friend  of  his  believes  that  Mr.  Thomas  dram- 
atized himself  when  he  created  the  part  of  the 
quiet,  masterful  gambler,  Jack  Brookfield,  in 
"The  Witching  Hour." 

Charles  Klein  is  of  very  small  stature — a 
fact  that  probably  accounts  for  the  anecdote  re- 
lated earlier  in  my  article.  None  of  his  family 
has  been  a  sky-scraper.  Manuel  Klein,  the 
composer,  is  not  above  five  feet  six,  and  Alfred 
Klein,  another  brother,  who  originated  the 
role  of  the  elephant  tamer  in  "Wang",  owed 
much  of  his  success  as  a  comedian  to  his  brevity 
— that   being,    as   you    know,   the   soul    of  wit. 

140 


PERSONALITIES  OF  PLAYWRIGHTS 

Charles  is  the  embodiment  of  dignity,  and  takes 
himself  and  his  work  most  seriously.  I  think 
I  have  never  seen  a  photograph  of  him  that  did 
not  show  him  in  his  library,  either  writing  or 
reading  some  ponderous  tome.  He  has  a  fine 
head,  with  a  lofty  brow  that  grows  to  be  a  lit- 
tle loftier  every  year. 

No  estimate  of  Mr.  Klein  could  be  called 
complete  which  did  not  take  account  of  his  grit 
and  stick-to-it-iveness.  Connected  with  the 
theater  from  his  earliest  youth — he  was  call 
boy  in  the  company  with  a  relative  of  mine — 
he  produced  his  first  play  when  he  was  hardly 
more  than  twenty.  His  misses  were  many,  and 
his  hits  few  and  far  between,  but  he  kept  on 
trying,  until,  with  David  Warfield's  first  star- 
ring venture,  "The  Auctioneer",  he  struck  the 
bullseye  of  public  approval  squarely  in  the  mid- 
dle. Today  he  probably  is  the  wealthiest  of 
our  dramatists,  and  a  couple  of  years  ago  it 
was  estimated  that  his  income  could  not  be  less 
that  $3,000  a  week.  He  owns  a  charming 
home,  called  Shirley  Manor  after  the  principal 

141 


THE    FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

female  character  in  "The  Lion  and  the  Mouse", 
at  Rowayton,  Conn.  In  the  same  town  he  oper- 
ates a  hat  factory  of  which  his  son  until  recent- 
ly was  the  manager. 

In  the  adamantine  quality  of  his  "hard  luck 
story",  no  one  far  surpasses  Eugene  Walter, 
whose  income  used  to  hover  about  that 
quoted  as  Mr.  Klein's.  It  is  told  that  this 
young  man  was  lodging  upon  a  park  bench 
when  Wagenhals  &  Kemper  produced  his 
"Paid  in  Full",  but,  personally,  I  am  inclined 
to  regard  this  tale  as  more  picturesque  than  ac- 
curate. In  need  of  money  he  may  have  been, 
but  the  parental  Walters,  who  live  in  Cleve- 
land, were  quite  able  to  prevent  his  lacking  real 
necessities,  and  'Gene  himself  has  always  been 
in  the  way  of  earning  a  living  in  the  newspaper 
or  the  theatrical  business.  He  served  an  ap- 
prenticeship as  press  agent  of  various  attrac- 
tions, and  it  was  while  both  of  us  were  acting 
in  this  capacity  that  we  met  at  the  Walnut 
Street  Theater,  in  Philadelphia. 

Mr.  Walter's  initial  effort,  "Sergeant  James", 

142 


"Eugene  Walter  was  lodging 
upon  a  park  bench  when 
W agenhals  &  Kemper 
produced  his  'Paid  in  Full' 


PERSONALITIES  OF  PLAYWRIGHTS 

had  just  been  produced,  and  had  scored  an  un- 
questionable failure.  He  told  me  the  story  of 
the  piece,  and  "it  listened  good",  but  I  could 
not  believe  it  possible  that  the  man  opposite  me 
was  capable  of  winning  place  in  a  profession  of 
letters.  Eugene  Walter  is  not  impressive  to 
the  naked  eye.  I  had  him  in  mind  chiefly  when 
I  spoke  of  the  ease  with  which  one  might  mis- 
take a  dramatist  for  a  prosperous  tailor.  Mr. 
Walter  looks  more  like  a  neat  and  gentlemanly 
mechanic.  He  cannot  be  above  thirty  years  of 
age,  and  his  height  and  weight — he  is  five 
feet  five  and  tips  the  scales  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  a  hundred  and  forty— make  him  seem 
to  be  about  twenty-four.  My  recollection  of 
his  dress  is  that  he  usually  wears  a  flannel  shirt. 
I  may  be  wrong  as  to  this  detail,  but,  in  any 
event,  his  style  and  general  appearance  are  such 
as  to  create  the  impression. 

His  demeanor  suggests  neither  culture  nor 
education,  though,  as  I  have  said,  he  comes  of 
a  good  family  and  had  excellent  schooling.  The 
value  of  erudition,  even  so  far  as  it  concerns  the 

*45 


THE    FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

technique  of  the  drama,  in  the  writing  of  plays 
he  denies  absolutely.  In  fact,  I  believe  that  his 
horror  of  being  thought  what  he  calls  "a  high 
brow"  leads  Mr.  Walter  to  assume  a  contempt 
of  art  and  letters,  though  he  has  it  not.  He 
has  an  intuitive  appreciation  of  the  beautiful, 
and  yet,  at  a  recent  exhibition  of  the  paintings 
of  a  great  Spaniard,  his  only  comment  was, 
"Don't  let's  waste  any  more  time  in  here !" 
"Playwrights  are  born" ,  he  has  gone  on  record 
as  observing.  "You  can't  learn  anything  about 
playwriting." 

If  genius  is  the  quality  of  doing  by  instinct, 
without  great  thought  or  labor,  obeying  the 
commands  of  a  something  outside  of  one's  self, 
Eugene  Walter  is  certainly  a  genius.  If  it  is, 
as  some  philosopher  has  said,  "an  infinite  capac- 
ity for  taking  pains",  he  is  nothing  of  the  sort. 
He  works  by  fits  and  starts,  idling  unconscion- 
ably for  months  at  a  time,  and  then  completing 
a  play  in  a  fortnight.  "The  Easiest  Way"  was 
written  in  ten  days.  Mr.  Walter's  method  of 
composition  really  is  nothing  more  nor  less  than 

146 


PERSONALITIES  OF  PLAYWRIGHTS 

improvisation — the  method  childern  employ 
when  they  "make  things  up"  as  they  ugo 
along." 

The  tools  necessary  to  the  process  are  one 
large  room,  one  outfit  of  furniture,  and  one  ex- 
ceptionally rapid  stenographer.  Mr.  Walter 
and  the  stenographer  enter  the  room.  The 
door  is  locked,  and  work  is  begun  by  placing 
the  furniture  as  it  is  to  be  placed  on  the  stage 
— in  other  words,  by  setting  the  scene.  Then 
the  young  dramatist  begins  to  act.  He  is  all 
the  characters  in  his  play.  He  rushes  about  the 
apartment,  quarreling  with  himself,  making 
love  to  himself,  now  standing  here  as  one  per- 
son and  then  racing  to  the  opposite  end  of  the 
apartment  to  be  another.  All  the  time  he  is 
speaking  the  words  that  come  into  his  mind  as 
natural  under  the  circumstances,  and  the  stenog- 
pher  is  taking  them  down  at  top  speed.  At  the 
end  of  an  hour  or  two  an  act  is  finished,  an  in- 
visible curtain  is  rung  down,  and,  if  the  amanu- 
ensis hasn't  fainted,  as  two  did  in  one  day  of 
labor  on  "Paid  in  Full",  the  stage  is  set  for  the 

147 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

next  act. 

Of  course,  you  understand  that,  before  the 
play  reaches  this  point,  the  story,  the  situations, 
and  even  some  details  of  dialogue  must  have 
been  carefully  thought  out.  In  connection  with 
Mr.  Walter,  I  should  say  that  they  must  have 
had  time  to  assemble  in  his  mind,  having  pop- 
ped in,  like  Topsy,  already  grown.  He  goes 
about  with  what  he  himself  described  to  me  as 
"a  seething  mass  of  stuff  in  my  head"  until  the 
"seething  mass"  cries  for  release,  and  then — 
the  impromptu  performance  before  the  audi- 
ence of  one.  The  quickness  of  Mr.  Walter's 
conception,  the  instantaneousness  with  which 
drama  is  formed  for  him,  is  illustrated  by  an 
experience  of  last  winter. 

We  had  been  to  witness  a  bad  play — one 
doomed  to  close  the  following  Saturday. 
"I  lopeless!"  I  said,  as  we  left  the  theater. 

"Hopeless",  repeated  Mr.  Walter,  "but  not 
without  possibilities.  If  that  idea  had  been 
mine,  I  should  have  commenced  with  the  big 
situation    of   the    third    act.      Then    I    should 

148 


PERSONALITIES  OF  PLAYWRIGHTS 

have  worked  backward,  using  the  story  of 
the-" 

In  five  minutes  he  had  sketched  a  new  play, 
constructed  around  the  theme  of  the  old  one, 
and  it  was  a  corker  1 

As  everyone  knows,  Eugene  Walter  was 
married  recently  to  Charlotte  Walker,  the  ac- 
tress, and  it  is  common  knowledge,  too,  that 
both  were  bitterly  disappointed  at  David  Bel- 
asco's  refusal  to  assign  the  principal  role  in 
"The  Easiest  Way"  to  Miss  Walker.  For  this 
disappointment  her  husband  tried  to  atone  by  fit- 
ting her  with  "Just  a  Wife",  but  the  piece  failed 
sadly  at  the  Belasco  Theater.  The  Walters  live  in 
the  Ansonia  Apartments,  in  upper  Broadway, 
but  they  are  contemplating  the  erection  of  a 
home  near  Long  Island  Sound.  The  man  who 
writes  plays,  or,  for  that  matter,  any  other  man 
who  performs  labor  requiring  close  concentra- 
tion, finds  it  impossible  to  do  his  best  in  New 
York.  "The  very  air  is  laden  with  distrac- 
tion", says  George  Broadhurst,  author  of 
"The  Man  of  the  Hour."     "When  I  want  to 

149 


THE    FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

work  I  get  as  far  as  possible  from  Forty-second 
street." 

A  dramatist  of  a  pattern  with  Eugene  Wal- 
ter's, though  drawn  in  bolder,  blacker  lines,  is 
Paul  Armstrong,  to  whom  theater-goers  owe 
"Salomy  Jane",  "The  Heir  to  the  Hoorah" 
and  "Alias  Jimmy  Valentine".  Mr.  Arm- 
strong's contempt  for  the  ordinary  amenities, 
the  graces  of  every-day,  is  own  big  brother  to 
Mr.  Walter's.  He  is  a  big,  fine-looking  fel- 
low, characterized  by  tremendous  vigor  and 
virility,  by  what  he  himself  would  call  "the 
punch."  He  is  aggressively  self-confident, 
where  Augustus  Thomas  is  only  passively  so; 
combative  by  disposition  and  much  inclined  to 
talk  in  superlatives.  His  broad-brimmed  hat 
and  his  black  imperial  suggest  the  Westerner, 
though  most  of  his  life  has  been  spent  in  New 
York.  He  was  formerly  a  well-known  au- 
thority on  pugilism,  writing  for  the  Evening 
Journal  under  the  nom  de  plume  of  "Right 
Cross." 

Mr.    Armstrong's   hatred  of  theatrical  man- 

150 


PERSONALITIES  OF  PLAYWRIGHTS 

agers  used  to  be  a  by-word,  but  it  has  been  less 
so  since  he  himself  undertook  the  production 
of  his  own  melo-drama,  "Society  and  the  Bull- 
dog." His  experience  with  one  impressario,  A. 
H.  Woods,  to  whom  he  sold  "The  Supersti- 
tions of  Sue",  is  as  amusing  a  story  as  I 
know. 

"The  Superstitions  of  Sue"  already  had 
been  accepted  by  the  two  senior  members  of  the 
firm  of  Sullivan,  Harris  &  Woods,  and  Mr. 
Armstrong  had  an  appointment  to  read  the 
piece  to  the  junior  member  at  eleven  o'clock 
one  bright  Sunday.  Promptly  at  that  hour,  he 
appeared  at  the  Woods  residence,  in  Riverside 
Drive,  accompanied  by  two  friends.  Introduc- 
tions followed,  and  the  friends  sat  down,  with 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Woods,  to  hear  the  new 
farce. 

Mr.  Armstrong  had  hardly  begun  when  the 
visitors  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter.  They 
howled  afresh  at  every  line,  including  descrip- 
tions of  characters  and  "business",  and  the  ren- 
dering   was    concluded    with    the    pair    rolling 

151 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE  AND  AFT 

about  in  a  perfect  ecstacy  of  mirth.  Mr.  Woods 
regarded  them  with  sober  suspicion.  His  risi- 
bles  hadn't  been  touched,  but,  when  Mrs. 
Woods  joined  in  the  merriment,  he  determined 
that  he  didn't  know  humor  when  he  met  it,  and, 
the  seance  being  over,  closed  a  contract  to  pre- 
sent "The  Superstitions  of  Sue." 

When  the  men  had  gone,  Mr.  Woods  said 
to  Mrs.  Woods:  "I  suppose  I'm  dull,  but  I 
thought  that  play  duller  still.  Of  course, 
Armstrong's  friends  were  brought  to  laugh,  but 
when  you  began  laughing,  too,  I  knew  the  piece 
must  be  funny." 

"Why",  responded  Mrs.  Woods,  "I  only 
laughed  because  the  others  did.  I  wanted  to  be 
civil." 

"The  Superstitions  of  Sue"  was  one  of  the 
worst  failures  of  its  year. 

I  have  spoken  of  Eugene  Walter's  method 
of  work,  but  that  method  is  not  more  remark- 
able than  the  faith  in  a  special  environment 
held  by  James  Forbes.  Even  while  he  smiles 
at  his  own  credulity,  Mr.  Forbes  believes  firm- 
ly 


PERSONALITIES  OF  PLAYWRIGHTS 

ly  that  he  can  put  forth  his  best  effort  only  in 
Room  371  of  the  Bellevue  Hotel,  in  Boston. 
Whenever  he  "feels  a  play  coming  on",  he 
boards  a  train,  journeys  to  The  Hub,  and  locks 
himself  up  in  the  apartment  which  bears  that 
number.  There  he  composed  the  scenarios  of 
"The  Chorus  Lady",  "The  Travelling  Sales- 
man," and  "The  Commuters." 

"I  can  think  more  clearly  on  a  railway  train 
than  anywhere  else",  declares  Mr.  Forbes.  "A 
chair  car  is  the  ideal  place  for  concentration." 
This  young  fellow  differs  from  his  colleagues 
in  his  inability  to  work  in  the  country.  He 
owns  and  occupies  a  veritable  palace  at  Croton- 
on-Hudson,  but  he  never  attempts  anything  im- 
portant there.  He  says:  "I  find  my  surround- 
ings too  alluring.  Only  conscience  keeps  me  at 
a  desk  anyway,  and  conscience  is  weaker  than 
the  charm  of  outdoors."  One  rather  fancies 
that  Jimmie's  conscience — he  is  "Jimmie"  to 
his  friends — is  pretty  rigid.  He  comes  of 
Scotch  ancestry,  and  was  reared  in  a  Scotch 
Presbyterian    community    in    Canada.       "The 

153 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

theater  was  held  up  to  my  youthful  attention 
as  a  dreadful  place",  he  told  me  one  night, 
when  we  were  lingering  over  supper.  "The 
stock  story  in  my  family  concerned  a  playhouse 
in  Edinboro,  which,  being  used  sacreligously 
for  the  representation  of  a  scene  in  heaven,  was 
promptly  burned,  with  every  soul  in  it,  as  a  di- 
vine judgment. 

"This  tale  stuck  fast  in  my  memory.  At  the 
age  of  nine  I  stole  away  to  see  'Uncle  Tom's 
Cabin',  and,  when  the  transformation  showed 
Little  Eva  in  Paradise,  I  slipped  out  and  wait- 
ed in  the  street  for  the  theater  to  burn  down.  1 
was  terribly  disappointed  that  nothing  of  the 
sort  happened,  and,  after  hanging  around  for 
the  better  part  of  the  afternoon,  I  went  home  a 
confirmed  agnostic." 

Jimmie  drifted  from  Scotch  Presbyterianism 
into  dramatic  authorship  by  easy  and  natural 
stages.  First  he  was  employed  in  a  wholesale 
grocery  store,  then  he  became  an  actor,  a  news- 
paper man,  a  press  agent,  a  manager,  and,  fin- 
ally, a  playwright.     A  short  story,  which  he  had 

154 


PERSONALITIES  OF  PLAYWRIGHTS 

published  under  the  title  of  "The  Extra  Girl", 
suggested  "The  Chorus  Lady",  and  an  ac- 
quaintance with  Rose  Stahl,  who  had  been  lead- 
ing woman  of  a  company  in  which  he  had  acted, 
lead  to  her  being  chosen  for  the  principal  role 
in  the  one  act  play  of  that  name.  Mr.  Forbes 
soon  saw  the  possibility  of  amplifying  the  sketch 
into  a  four  act  comedy,  and,  though  Miss 
Stahl  was  not  enthusiastic  about  the  idea  at  first, 
he  induced  her  to  assume  the  part  in  which  she 
has  since  appeared  more  than  a  thousand  times. 
Mr.  Forbes  is  a  boyish-looking  young  man, 
small  in  stature,  nervous  in  manner,  with  a 
swarthy  skin,  and  an  ocean  of  forehead  into 
which  descends  a  peninsula  of  glossy  black  hair. 
He  is  general  manager  for  Henry  B.  Harris, 
and  has  numberless  business  duties  to  perform 
in  his  comfortable  little  office  in  the  Hudson 
Theater.  He  writes  exclusively  for  Mr.  Har- 
ris, and  has  an  interest  in  the  profits  of  his  plays, 
besides  the  regular  royalties,  so  that  he  has 
made  a  considerable  fortune  out  of  three  big 
successes.      Mr.    Forbes   probably    is   the    only 

155 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

dramatist  in  the  world  who,  in  addition  to  writ- 
ting  his  play,  stages  it,  attends  to  the  details  of 
business  management,  plans  the  advertising 
campaign,  and  supervises  the  press  work. 

Winchell  Smith,  who  made  the  comedy, 
"Brewster's  Millions",  and  who  is  author  of 
"The  Fortune  Hunter",  says  he  chose  dramatic 
authorship  "because  you  don't  have  to  be  gram- 
matical in  plays."  "I  couldn't  write  a  maga- 
zine article  for  a  millon  dollars",  he  adds,  "but 
dialogue  comes  easy  to  me."  However,  Mr. 
Smith,  like  many  others  of  his  cult,  hates  "the 
drudgery  of  composition."  He  likes  to  plan 
a  new  piece,  but  wishes  that  the  manuscript 
"could  be  got  out  of  my  head  by  a  surgical 
operation."  Mr.  Smith  is  a  tall,  slender,  diffi- 
dent young  man,  with  a  keen  sense  of  humor 
and  a  varied  experience.  He  began  life  in  the 
grain  and  feed  business  in  Hartford,  and  acted 
for  many  years  in  support  of  that  still  more  cel- 
ebrated llartfordian,  William  Gillette.  Lang- 
don  Mitchell,  author  of  "The  New  York  Idea", 
and  John   Luther  Long,   author  of  "Madame 

l56 


PERSONALITIES  OF  PLAYWRIGHTS 

Butterfly",  both  are  Philadelphians.  Mr.  Mit- 
chell won  fame  as  a  poet,  under  the  pseudonym 
of  John  Philip  Varley,  before  "Becky  Sharp" 
brought  him  to  the  attention  of  theater-goers. 
Mr.  Long,  whose  ethereal  fancies  are  so  charm- 
ing, pretends  to  practice  the  prosaic  profession 
of  law  at  629  Walnut  street. 

Eugene  Presbrey,  grey-bearded,  vibrant,  in- 
tense, devotes  himself  mainly  to  the  adaptation 
of  novels.  "I  want  the  novel  that  can't  be 
dramatized!"  he  declares,  and,  for  this  reason, 
he  found  much  pleasure  in  doing  "Raffles."  It 
seemed  a  hopeless  task  to  win  sympathy  for  a 
confirmed  criminal,  and  Mr.  Presbrey  had 
about  abandoned  the  task,  when,  one  evening 
in  Seventh  Avenue,  he  saw  a  man  running  at 
top  speed,  a  crowd  in  pursuit,  and  heard  the 
cry:  "Stop  thief!"  "The  fellow  was  just  be- 
hind me",  says  the  author,  "and,  turning 
around,  I  got  a  good  view  of  his  hunted,  des- 
perate expression.  Before  I  knew  what  I  was 
doing,  I  whispered:  'Get  up  the  alley!'  And 
I  didn't  tell  the  policeman.     'No  sympathy  for 

157 


THE    FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

a  criminal !'  I  exclaimed  to  myself,  when  I  had 
leisure  to  analyze  my  action.  'Why,  every  hu- 
man being  is  a  criminal  at  heart !  He  knows 
that,  under  certain  circumstances,  he  might  be 
the  fugitive,  and  he  feels  sorry  for  the  other 
fellow  in  proportion.'  "  Mr.  Presbrey  wrote 
"Raffles"  in  three  weeks,  and  it  has  been  acted 
in  every  country  that  boasts  a  theater. 

I  have  at  my  side  a  list  of  some  thirty  men 
and  women  who  write  plays  and  of  whom  I 
could  chat  indefinitely.  Each  of  these  authors 
is  so  interesting,  all  of  them  have  lived  so  many 
stories,  that  it  is  hard  for  me  to  admit  a  space 
limit  and  forebear  being  their  Boswell.  There 
is  George  Broadhurst,  lean  and  business-like, 
who  made  a  reputation  by  his  farces,  and  then, 
when  that  had  been  forgotten,  made  another 
by  his  serious  dramas.  There  is  Paul  Potter, 
white-haired,  rotund,  genial,  the  intimate  friend 
of  Charles  Frohman,  and  the  adaptor  of  "Tril- 
by." There  are  earnest  young  William  C.  De 
Mille,  author  of  "Strongheart" ;  Paul  Kester,  a 
wisp   of   a    lad,   timid    and   self-conscious,   who 

158 


PERSONALITIES  OF  PLAYWRIGHTS 

glories  in  swashbuckling  melodramas  and  who 
did  "When  Knighthood  Was  in  Flower"; 
Thompson  Buchanan,  newspaper  reporter  to 
his  finger  tips,  who  landed  a  big  success  in  UA 
Woman's  Way"  and  afterward  wrote  "The 
Cub";  Sydney  Rosenfeld,  the  wit  and  dreamer, 
one  time  editor  of  Puck,  who  refused  to  turn 
out  a  book  sub  rosa  with  Augustus  Thomas  be- 
cause he  objected  to  any  scheme  "which  involved 
pooling  our  separate  fames  to  become  anony- 
mous" ;  and  there  are  a  whole  army  of  brilliant 
young  chaps,  like  William  J.  Hurlbut,  of  "The 
Fighting  Hope",  who  lives  a  stone's  throw 
from  me  at  Shoreham,  L.  I.,  and  Avery  Hop- 
wood,  who  collaborated  with  me  in  producing 
"Clothes",  and  with  Mary  Roberts  Rhinehart 
in  producing  "Seven  Days." 

I  should  like  to  tell  you  about  pretty  Mar- 
garet Mayo,  who  has  built  a  villa  from  the  pro- 
ceeds of  "Polly  of  the  Circus",  and  whose 
first  fame  as  a  playwright  was  achieved  under 
circumstances  described  elsewhere  in  this  book. 
Rachel  Crothers  is  a  sedate,  New  Englandish 

159 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND   AFT 

young  woman,  who  used  to  teach  acting  in  the 
Wheatcroft  School,  and  whom  I  met  when  she 
was  going  from  office  to  office  with  the  manu- 
script of  "The  Three  of  Us."  Rida  Johnson, 
famed  for  "Brown  of  Harvard"  and  "The  Lot- 
tery Man",  is  tall,  dark,  fine-looking,  and  her 
professional  career  began  when  she  was  lead- 
ing woman  for  her  husband,  James  Young,  in 
her  first  play,  "Lord  Byron."  I  can't  make  you 
acquainted  with  people  in  a  line — only  Kipling 
can  do  that — and  a  proper  description  of  all 
our  playwrights  would  fill  a  volume. 

They  are,  for  the  most  part,  a  quiet,  unas- 
suming lot,  constituting,  of  course,  the  brains 
of  the  theater,  and  lacking  wholly  the  pose  and 
self-importance  of  their  creature,  the  actor. 
They  are  of  the  stage,  and  yet  singularly  apart 
from  it,  the  glare  of  the  footlights  being  merged 
for  them  with  the  soft  red  glow  of  the  library. 
I  am  glad  to  have  been  their  press  agent  this 
little  time,  for  the  majority  of  them  are  almost 
unknown  to  the  very  throngs  they  entertain  vi- 
cariously.    The  wig-maker  has  his  name  on  the 

1 60 


"Margaret  Mayo  built  a  villa  from  the 
the  proceeds  of  'Polly  of  the  Circus' 


.}  >> 


PERSONALITIES  OF  PLAYWRIGHTS 

program  in  larger  letters  than  they,  and  the 
chorus  girl  receives  infinitely  more  attention 
from  the  newspapers.  More  than  any  other 
class  of  men,  I  believe  them  to  be  actuated  by 
the  desire  to  do  fine  things.  "I  want  to  write 
plays  that  add  to  the  joy  of  life  I"  exclaims  one 
of  the  cult,  looking  over  my  shoulder.  "I  shall 
never  write  a  play  that  does  not  contain  some- 
thing of  hope  and  happiness!" 


163 


STAGE  STRUCK 


Being  a  diagnosis  of  the  disease,  and  a  description  of  its 
symptoms,  which  has  the  rare  medical  merit  of  attempting 
a  cure  at  the  same  time. 


ROM  the  stern  life  of  an  officer  in 
Uncle  Sam's  Navy  to  a  merry  job 
carrying  a  spear  in  the  chorus  of  a 
musical  comedy  may  be  a  far  cry",  but  that  is 
the  step  which  a  metropolitan  newspaper  re- 
cently recorded  as  having  been  taken  by  a  young 
man  named  in  the  story  whose  beginning  is 
quoted  above.  On  another  page  of  this  same 
newspaper  was  an  article  which  announced 
that  "because  pink  teas,  bridge  whist,  and 
dances  no  longer  amused  her",  a  certain 
"society  woman"  had  joined  the  chorus  of  a 
company  appearing  at  the  Casino.  These  two 
cases  composed  a  single  day's  list  of  casualties 
from  the  malignant  disease  known  as  stage- 
fever. 

When  my  eye  had  finished  its  journey  over 

164 


DANGER 

STAGE 
FEVER 


The  malignant  disease" 


STAGE  STRUCK 

the  accounts  of  the  "society  woman"  and  the 
naval  officer,  I  paused  to  wonder  whether 
either  of  these  aspirants  would  be  checked  by 
irr'ng  spread-headed  over  the  first  page  of  the 
journal  in  question  the  horrid  details  of  a  the- 
atrical suicide.  The  night  before,  an  actress  of 
reputation — a  woman  who  had  won  everything 
that  these  new-comers  had  but  a  faint  chance  of 
winning — had  killed  herself  in  an  hotel  in  Bal- 
timore. Of  course,  it  had  not  been  shown  that 
this  "star"  was  influence i  by  my  rircumstar.ee 
connected  with  her  work.  and.  of  course  :  s 
true  that  people  of  various  professions  are  x .:• 
slain,  and  yet — I  wondered 

If  the  naval  officer  was  restrained  in  his  re- 
solve it  was  not  for  long.  A  week  ;r  so  later 
I  saw  this  impetuous  youth,  who  couldn't  stand 
"being  bottled  up  on  a  battle-ship",  on  the 
s:age  oi  an  up-town  thea:er.  He  was  srir.i  r.g 
near  the  middle  of  a  row  of  young  men,  wav- 
ing his  hands  at  s:a:ed  intervals,  and  singing 
"yes — yes"  at  the  end  of  every  se;;  nd  I  ne  ren- 
dered by  the  principal  comedian.     He  had  but 

167 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

to  wave  his  hands  a  moment  too  soon  or  too 
late  in  order  to  incur  a  fine  or  a  reprimand. 
Perhaps  by  this  time  he  has  discovered  that 
there  are  worse  misfortunes  than  being  "bot- 
tled up  on  a  battleship." 

Whether  he  does  or  not,  the  stream  of  the 
stage-struck  will  continue  to  flow  like  the  brook 
poeticized  by  Tennyson.  There  is  no  stopping 
it.  Youth  has  a  better  chance  of  missing 
measles  or  scarlet-fever  than  of  escaping  that 
consuming  passion  to  "go  on  the  stage."  Near- 
ly everyone  struggles  with  the  mania  for  a  time; 
the  wise  conquer  it,  the  foolish  make  up  the 
comic  opera  choruses,  the  unimportant  road 
companies,  and  the  stage-door-keeper's  list  of 
"extra  ladies  and  gentlemen."  From  every 
class  and  walk  of  life,  from  every  town  and 
city  troop  the  victims,  abandoning  their  voca- 
tions and  their  homes,  as  though  they  had  heard 
the  witching  notes  of  a  siren  song.  They  come 
with  high  hopes  and  bright  dreams,  most  of 
them  to  the  great,  gay  city  of  New  York,  where 
they  besiege   the   agencies,   and   the  managers, 

168 


STAGE  STRUCK 

and  the  teachers  of  acting  until  their  dreams 
fade,  or  their  money  gives  out,  or  they  are  smit- 
ten with  realization.  There  is  hardly  a  com- 
munity in  the  country  so  small  as  to  be  with- 
out its  "amateur  dramatic  club",  and  no  one 
even  distantly  connected  with  the  theatrical  pro- 
fession has  lacked  his  or  her  experience  with 
the  innoculated  unfortunate  who  knows  that  "I 
could  succeed  if  I  only  had  a  chance." 

Some  time  ago  I  happened  to  be  in  Syracuse, 
and  used  the  long-distance  telephone  to  com- 
municate with  New  York.  My  conversation 
over,  I  sat  down  in  the  hotel  lobby,  and  had  just 
lit  a  cigar  when  a  page  announced:  "Long  dis- 
tance wants  you."  I  returned  to  the  booth. 
"Yes?"  I  inquired.  A  woman's  voice  replied: 
"I  overheard  enough  of  your  talk  with  New 
York  to  judge  that  you're  in  the  theatrical  bus- 
iness." 

"I'm  indirectly  connected  with  it",  I  replied., 
"Well",   said   the   voice,   "I'm   the   long-dis- 
tance operator,  and  I  want  to  go  on  the  stage. 
Please  get  me  an  engagement." 

169 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

I  explained  my  misfortune  in  being  acquaint- 
ed with  no  manger  who  was  likely  to  consider 
extensive  training  in  enunciation  of  "hello" 
and  "busy"  sufficient  education  for  the  stage. 
The  lady  probably  didn't  believe  me,  for  it  is 
the  popular  impression  that  anyone  concerned 
in  the  business  of  the  playhouse  has  only  to  ask 
in  order  to  receive  a  contract  for  whomever  he 
wishes  to  assist.  That  song-heroine,  who  de- 
clared herself  "an  intimate  friend  of  an  inti- 
mate friend  of  Frohman",  has  her  prototype  in 
real  life.  Moreover,  no  aspirant  to  footlight 
honors  ever  can  be  convinced  that  actors  must 
be  made  as  well  as  born,  and  that  there  may  be 
a  few  people  in  the  world,  who,  given  the  op- 
portunity, would  not  become  Modjeskas  and 
Mansfields. 

William  A.  Brady  once  was  served  at  dinner 
by  a  waitress  whose  surliness  astonished  him. 
He  made  no  remark,  however,  and  at  last  the 
waitress  addressed  him.  "You're  William  A. 
Brady",  she  said;  "ain't  you?" 

Mr.  Brady  confessed. 

170 


"  'You're  William  A.  Brady, 
ain't  you?'  " 


STAGE  STRUCK 

"Well",  exclaimed  the  duchess  of  dishes, 
"my  name's  Minnie  Clark.  I've  been  a  waitress 
since  I  was  fourteen  years  old,  and  I  think  I  can 
stand  it  until  about  next  Wednesday.  Give  me 
a  job,  will  you?" 

David  Belasco  had  a  less  amusing  experience 
with  a  chambermaid  in  Attleboro,  Mass.,  where 
he  spent  a  night  with  the  organization  support- 
ing David  Warfield  in  "The  Auctioneer."  This 
girl,  whose  tap  at  the  door  interrupted  the 
wizard  producer  while  he  was  blue-penciling  a 
scene,  had  just  heard  of  his  presence  in  town, 
and  lost  no  time  approaching  him.  She  had 
been  stage-struck  since  childhood.  Hearing  of 
Mr.  Belasco's  success  in  teaching  dramatic  art, 
she  had  determined  to  visit  him  in  New  York. 
"I  saved  my  money  for  three  years",  she  said, 
"and  then  I  went  up  to  you.  I  called  at  your 
office  every  day,  but  they  wouldn't  let  me  in. 
When  all  my  money  was  spent  I  came  back 
home,  and  began  saving  again.  I  had  about 
half  enough  when  I  found  that  you  were  com- 
ing to  Attleboro."     Mr.  Belasco  was  unable  to 

A    !73 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

give  the  girl  the  least  encouragement.  She  was 
wholly  illiterate,  and,  moreover,  her  death  war- 
rant was  writ  on  her  face.  She  was  suffering 
from  an  incurable  disease  of  the  lungs. 

Collin  Kemper,  one  of  the  managers  of  the 
Astor  Theater,  recently  had  a  letter  from  an 
elderly  priest,  who,  after  twenty  years  in  the 
pulpit,  felt  that  he  wanted  "a  larger  field  of  ex- 
pression", and  yearned  to  play  Shakespeare.  A 
wrinkled  old  woman  of  sixty  sought  the  late 
Edward  Marble,  when  he  was  conducting  a 
school  of  acting  in  Baltimore,  and  confided  in 
him  her  desire  to  be  seen  as  Juliet.  This  de- 
sire she  had  cherished  nearly  half  a  century 
when  the  death  of  a  relative  gave  her  the 
means  of  gratifying  her  ambition.  Daniel 
Frohman  once  received  a  young  man,  who  laid 
on  his  desk  a  letter  of  introduction  from  an 
acquaintance  in  the  West.  "Ah!"  said  Mr. 
Frohman.     "So  you  wish  to  become  an  actor?" 

"Yes",  replied  the  young  man.  "I'm  puh- 
puh-puh-perfectly  wa-wa-willing  to  ba-ba-ba-be- 
gin  at  the  ba-bottom — " 

174 


"A  wrinkled  old  woman 

confided  her  desire  to  be  seen  as  Juliet 


STAGE  STRUCK 

He  stuttered  hopelessly. 

The  most  astonishing  feature  of  stage  fever, 
however,  is  that  its  ravages  are  not  confined  to 
the  ranks  of  people  who  would  be  bettered  by 
success  in  their  chosen  profession.     My  wealthi- 
est friend,  a  silk  importer,  who  owns  a  charm- 
ing home   in  Central  Park  West,  dines  alone 
while  his  wife  stands  in  the  wings  of  a  dirty  lit- 
tle theater  in  Paris,  where  their  only  daughter 
earns  a  hundred  francs  a  week  by  dancing.     A 
successful  literary  man  of  my  acquaintance,  who 
would    cheerfully    devote    his    entire    income, 
something  more  than  fifteen  thousand  a  year, 
to  making  his  young  wife  happy  in  his  cozy 
apartment  yields  per  force  to  her  wish  to  ap- 
pear in  vaudeville.     The  most  valuable  mem- 
ber of  the  staff  of  an  out-of-town  newspaper, 
recipient  of  a  big  salary,  suddenly  threw  up  his 
position  two  years  ago,  since  when  he  has  been 
employed  seven  weeks,  and  that  seven  weeks  in 
an    organization    presenting    "The    Chinatown 
Trunk  Mystery." 

A.    L.    Wilbur,    at   the   time   when   he    con- 

177 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

ducted  the  well-known  Wilbur  Opera  Com- 
pany, printed  in  the  program  of  his  perform- 
ances an  advertisement  for  chorus  girls.  Suc- 
cessful applicants  were  paid  twelve  dollars  a 
week,  yet  recruits  came  by  the  dozens  from  the 
best  families  in  the  territory  through  which  the 
aggregation  was  touring.  Scores  of  the  young 
women  who  play  merry  villagers  on  Broadway 
today  are  well  born  and  bred  victims  of  the 
virus.  "Society"  has  contributed  even  to  the 
ranks  of  the  chorus  men,  whose  caste  is  far  be- 
low that  of  their  betighted  sisters.  When 
Maybelle  Gilman  opened  her  metropolitan  sea- 
son in  "The  Mocking  Bird"  a  male  chorister, 
whose  weekly  stipend  was  eighteen  dollars, 
electrified  the  management  by  purchasing  nine 
boxes.  This  Croesus  of  the  chorus  proved  to 
be  "Deacon"  Moore,  a  Cornell  graduate  and 
son  of  one  of  the  biggest  mine  operators  in  the 
West. 

The  germ  of  stage  fever  frequently  is  as 
slow  to  .get  out  of  the  system  as  it  is  quick  to 
enter  it.     Douglas  Fairbanks  is  a  clever  come- 

l78 


STAGE  STRUCK 

dian,  who,  after  a  long  apprenticeship,  has 
been  elevated  to  the  stellar  rank  by  William 
A.  Brady.  Mr.  Fairbanks  fell  in  love  with  the 
daughter  of  Daniel  J.  Sully,  and,  according  to 
report,  was  given  parental  permission  to 
marry  her  if  he  would  abandon  his  profession. 
Mr.  Fairbanks  retired  from  the  stage,  and  was 
out  of  the  cast  of  "The  Man  of  the  Hour"  for 
a  trifle  less  than  two  months.  Margaret  Ful- 
ler came  to  town  a  few  years  ago  with  an  am- 
bition to  star.  She  enlisted  the  help  of  a  well- 
known  manager,  who  told  her  that  he  would 
give  her  a  chance  to  play  Camille  if  she  could 
get  rid  of  twenty  pounds  of  superfluous  flesh. 
Miss  Fuller  presented  "Camille"  at  a  special 
matinee,  and  has  not  been  heard  of  since.  She 
is  still  in  the  theatrical  profession,  content  with 
minor  roles,  but  clinging  tenaciously  to  the  vo- 
cation. There  are  hundreds  of  men  and  wo- 
men haunting  the  agencies  in  New  York,  prom- 
enading that  graveyard  of  buried  hopes,  The 
Great  White  Way,  who  might  be  enjoying  the 
comfort  of  luxurious  homes  and  the  affection- 

179 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE  AND  AFT 

ate  care  of  doting  relatives. 

In  nine  cases  out  of  ten  the  mania  to  go  on 
the  stage  is  prompted  by  pure  desire  for  glori- 
fication. Love  of  excitement,  and  the  fallaci- 
ous notion  that  the  profession  is  one  of  com- 
parative ease  and  luxury,  may  be  alloying  fac- 
tors, but  the  essence  of  the  virus  is  vanity.  No 
other  field  offers  the  same  quick  approval  of 
successful  effort,  and  no  other  climber  is  quite 
so  much  the  center  of  his  eventual  triumph.  In 
the  other  arts,  approbation  follows  less  prompt- 
ly and  is  less  direct.  The  fortunate  player  hears 
the  intoxicating  music  of  applause  a  dozen 
times  every  evening  and  two  dozen  times 
on  matinee  days.  He  struts  about  his  mimic 
world,  the  observed  of  all  observers,  con- 
scious of  the  strained  attention  of  the  thousands 
who  have  paid  to  see  him,  profiting  not  only 
by  his  own  achievements  but  by  those  of  the 
author,  the  director,  the  scene-painter  and  the 
orchestra.  The  newspapers  are  full  of  his 
praise  and  his  photographs,  recording  his 
slightest  doing  and  giving  to  the  opinions  cx- 

180 


STAGE  STRUCK 

pressed  by  him,  or  by  his  press  agent,  an  im- 
portance scarcely  less  than  might  be  accorded 
the  President  of  the  United  States.  In  the 
course  of  time  he  even  begins  to  arrogate  to 
himself  the  heroic  virtues  of  the  characters  he 
impersonates.  It  is  sweet  to  see  one's  name 
on  the  cover  of  a  novel,  sweet  to  scrawl  one's 
autograph  in  the  lower  left-hand  corner  of  a 
painting,  but  O,  how  doubly  and  trebly  sweet 
to  meet  one's  own  image  lithographed  under  a 
laudatory  line  and  posted  between  advertise- 
ments of  the  newest  breakfast  food  and  the 
latest  five  cent  cigar! 

The  temptation  is  the  stronger,  as  the  re- 
wards are  more  numerous,  if  the  aspirant  hap- 
pens to  be  a  woman.  The  gentler  sex  may  not 
have  greater  vanity  than  the  stronger,  but  it 
takes  greater  delight  in  commendation  and  it 
has  keener  appreciation  of  luxury.  If  the 
much-mentioned  "society  belle"  longs  for  the 
glitter  and  gaud  supposed  to  exist  behind  the 
footlights,  how  can  one  blame  the  daughters 
of  poverty  and  squalor  who  make  up  the  rank 

181 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

and  file  of  the  chorus?  James  Forbes  has  em- 
bodied the  minds  of  these  girls  in  his  Patricia 
O'Brien  in  "The  Chorus  Lady."  What  won- 
der that  they  try  to  escape  the  sordid  common- 
places of  their  poor  lives  for  the  glory  of  the 
theater,  and  delight  to  strut  their  "brief  hour" 
in  a  palace,  even  if  that  palace  be  of  canvas  and 
scantling?  The  prospect  of  diamonds  and  au- 
tomobiles cannot  exert  a  stronger  appeal  to  the 
men  and  women  who  dwell  in  dreary  drudg- 
ery than  does  the  hope  of  becoming  somebody, 
of  enjoying  even  a  temporary  illumination  of 
their  obscurity. 

Charles  Dickens  vividly  explained  the  psy- 
chology of  this  longing  for  prominence  in  his 
chapter  on  "Private  Theaters"  in  "Sketches  by 
Boz."  In  his  day  there  were  scores  of  these 
institutions  in  London,  each  "the  center  of  a 
little  stage-struck  neighborhood."  In  the  lob- 
by of  each  was  hung  a  placard  quoting  the  price 
for  which  willing  amateurs  might  play  certain 
desirable  parts.  To  be  the  Duke  of  Glo'ster, 
in  "Richard  III",  cost  £2,  the  part  being  well 

182 


"How  sweet  to  meet  one's 
own  image" 


STAGE  STRUCK 

worth  that  amount  because  "the  Duke  must 
wear  a  real  sword,  and,  what  is  better  still,  he 
must  draw  it  several  times  in  the  course  of  the 
piece."  We  have  no  such  private  theaters  on 
this  side  of  the  water,  but  there  are  nearly  two 
hundred  amateur  dramatic  clubs  in  Brooklyn, 
while  other  communities  possess  these  organiza- 
tions in  proportion  to  their  size. 

There  are  three  well-trod  roads  to  the  stage. 
One  wanders  through  membership  in  a  society 
like  those  mentioned,  another  and  straighter  is 
by  way  of  the  dramatic  schools,  while  the  third, 
and  most  frequented,  goes  direct  from  the 
home  to  the  office  of  agent  or  manager.  Of 
dramatic  schools  the  number  is  legion,  but  only 
those  conducted  by  dishonest  adventurers  prom- 
ise employment  to  the  enrolled  student.  "Be 
an  actor  for  $i",  is  the  alluring  caption  of  an 
advertisement  carried  weekly  by  a  number  of 
periodicals,  but  the  aspirants  who  make  it 
profitable  for  that  institution  to  go  on  advertis- 
ing must  be  exceptionally  gullible.  New  York 
has  many  "academies"  in  which  useful  techni- 

185 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

calities  of  the  art  are  carefully  taught,  and  the 
managers  of  several  of  these  "academies"  keep 
in  close  touch  with  the  producing  interests  of 
the  country.  While  they  guarantee  nothing, 
they  frequently  are  able  to  place  their  gradu- 
ates in  small  parts.  Grace  George,  Margaret 
Illington,  and  other  well-known  stars  have 
come  out  of  these  schools. 

The  direct  path  to  which  reference  has  been 
made  is  full  of  difficulties  and  obstacles. 
Agencies  are  established  with  the  purpose  of 
helping  communication  between  managers  and 
the  actors  most  in  demand.  They  are  busy 
places,  with  little  time  to  devote  to  the  novice, 
and  the  average  impressario  is  not  more  nearly 
inaccessible  than  their  executive  heads.  Every 
year  the  producing  manager  is  less  inclined  to 
see  applicants  or  to  make  opportunities  for 
people  of  whom  he  knows  nothing.  It  is  all 
very  well  to  be  recommended  by  some  acquaint- 
ance of  the  man  who  "presents",  but  friend- 
ship is  only  friendship,  and  nobody  will  risk 
the  success  of  a  production  that  has  cost  thou- 

186 


STAGE  STRUCK 

sands  of  dollars  merely  to  please  an  associate. 
The  current  method  of  selecting  a  company  is 
quick  and  simple.  A  copy  of  the  play's  cast 
is  sent  to  the  manager,  who  writes  opposite  each 
character  the  name  of  the  actor  whom  he  thinks 
most  likely  to  interpret  that  role  to  advantage. 
Then  the  manager's  secretary  sends  for  the 
fortunate  Thespian.  This  system  is  undeniably 
hard,  and  perhaps  unjust  to  the  beginner,  but 
such  sentiment  as  gets  into  the  theater  comes  in 
manuscripts,  and,  in  these  days  of  severe  criti- 
cal judgment,  the  investor  in  drama  has  the 
fullest  right  to  minimize  his  risk. 

Out  of  every  hundred  tyros  who  come  to  town 
in  search  of  an  engagement  ten  may  secure  the 
coveted  prize,  and  not  more  than  one  person  out 
of  that  ten  makes  a  decent  living  from  his  or 
her  adopted  profession.  It  is  too  much  to  say  that 
one  aspirant  in  a  thousand  achieves  real  success. 
The  average  salary  in  the  chorus  is  $18,  and 
for  speaking  parts  in  dramatic  performances  it 
cannot  be  more  than  $40.  No  one  is  paid  dur- 
ing the  period  devoted  to  rehearsal,  and  a  long 

187 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

season  lasts  somewhere  between  thirty  and  thir- 
ty-five weeks.  The  sane  way  of  computing 
wages  in  the  theatrical  business,  therefore,  is 
to  multiply  by  thirty  and  divide  the  result  by 
fifty-two.  Following  this  system,  it  will  be  seen 
that  the  seeming  $40  a  week  really  is  only  $23. 
The  most  ardent  and  ambitious  among  the 
stage-struck  will  admit  that  this  is  not  an  in- 
come permitting  the  employment  of  a  chauffeur 
or  the  purchase  of  a  palatial  residence  on  Ri- 
verside Drive. 

Nor  is  the  matter  or  remuneration  the  only 
disappointment  connected  with  entrance  into 
the  theatrical  profession.  This  is  the  one  vo- 
cation in  which  the  worker  must  begin  again 
every  year.  If  the  fairly-successful  actor  "gets 
something"  for  the  current  season,  he  will  find 
almost  equal  difficulty  in  getting  something  else 
for  the  season  to  follow.  Unless  he  has  made 
a  prodigious  hit — and  prodigious  hits  are  very 
rare — he  finds  himself  no  farther  advanced 
next  June  than  he  was  last  September.  Should 
he  be  lucky  enough  to  remain  in  New  York,  he 

188 


STAGE  STRUCK 

occupies  a  hall  room  in  a  boarding  house,  and, 
failing  in  this  doubtful  good  fortune,  he  faces 
a  long  term  on  "the  road."  Excepting  only 
solitary  confinement  in  prison,  the  world  prob- 
ably holds  no  terror  surpassing  that  of  touring 
the  "one  night  stands."  Lost  to  his  best  friends 
and  companions,  travelling  at  all  hours  of  the 
day  and  night,  grateful  for  board  and  lodging 
that  would  not  be  tolerated  by  a  domestic  ser- 
vant, the  player  with  a  small  road  company  has 
ample  reason  to  repent  his  choice  of  a  career. 
To  illustrate  the  universal  dread  of  this  fate,  1 
quote  the  lines  printed  under  a  comic  picture 
in  the  Christmas  issue  of  a  prominent  dramatic 
weekly : 

DOCTOR— You're  pretty  badly  run  down, 
my  friend.     I  should  advise  change  of  scene. 

PATIENT— (Just  returned  from  thirty 
weeks  of  "one  night  stands"  with  the  Ripping 
Repertoire  Company).  Heaven  have  mercy 
on  me!      (He  dies). 

Of  course,  it  is  quite  futile  to  recite  facts  like 

189 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

these  to  the  victim  of  stage  fever.  That  un- 
happy individual  is  certain  that  he  or  she  will 
positively  enjoy  such  discomforts  as  your  feeble 
fancy  can  paint,  and  doubly  sure  that  the  ugly 
present  Avill  fade  into  a  roseate  future  just  as 
it  does  in  the  transformation  scene  at  the  end 
of  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin."  Tell  this  adventur- 
er that  one  histrion  in  a  thousand  succeeds  and 
your  reply  is  bound  to  be:  "I'll  be  that  one." 
And,  to  speak  truth,  he  or  she  may  be  that  one. 
Celebrated  actors  are  made  from  queer  material 
sometimes,  and  the  roster  of  well-known  people 
on  our  stage  includes  the  names  of  men 
and  women  who  were  originally  plumbers, 
waitresses,  floor-walkers  and  cloak-models.  The 
beginner  may  be  positive,  however,  that  these 
players  did  not  advance  while  they  still  had  the 
intellects  and  the  training  required  in  the  occu- 
pations mentioned.  No  person  can  possibly 
succeed  on  the  dramatic  stage  without  the  foun- 
dation of  genuine  talent  and  a  superstructure  of 
culture  and  education.  A  woman  whose  pro- 
nunciation  betrayed   the  baseness  of  her  early 

190 


STAGE  STRUCK 

environment  could  not  win  enduring  fame  if  she 
had  the  temperament  of  a  Bernhardt. 

Generally,  however,  the  woman  who  thinks 
she  has  the  temperament  of  a  Bernhardt  really 
has  only  anaemia  and  a  great  deal  of  vanity. 
If  she  has  not  mistaken  her  symptoms,  and,  be- 
sides genuine  ability,  has  a  good  education, 
some  money,  infinite  patience,  an  iron  constitu- 
tion, and  a  mind  made  up  to  the  bitterness  of 
long  waiting  and  constant  disappointment,  she 
may  eventually  win  a  position  half  as  important 
and  a  fourth  as  agreeable  as  that  which  she 
pictured  in  her  imagination. 

She  is  far  luckier  if  her  desire  to  go  on  the 
stage  proves  akin  to  and  as  fleeting  as  the  aver- 
age small  boy's  desire  to  be  a  burglar. 


191 


ON   THE   GREAT  WHITE   WAY 


Being  an  account  of  intrepid  explorations  in  the  habitat 
of  the  creatures  whose  habits  are  set  forth  in  the  preceding 
chapters. 


THE  Great  White  Way  is  a  recum- 
bent letter  I.  It  is  recumbent  be- 
cause the  habitues  of  the  Rialto  have 
used  it  to  the  point  of  exhaustion,  and  because 
streets  are  never  vertical  except  in  Naples.  The 
Rialto  is  the  name  by  which  The  Great  White 
Way  was  known  before  the  present  reckless 
mania  for  electric  signs  suggested  the  more  sig- 
nificant appellation.  In  that  long-ago  time  one 
who  spoke  of  the  district  in  question  referred 
to  Broadway  between  the  Star  Theatre  and  the 
office  of  The  Dramatic  Mirror.  The  Great 
White  Way  is  bounded  on  the  South  by  the 
Flatiron  Building,  on  the  West  by  the  Metro- 
politan Opera  House,  on  the  North  by  an  enor- 
mous incandescent  spread-eagle  advertising  a 
certain  kind  of  beer,   and  on  the  East  by  the 

192 


"The  Great  White  Way  is 
a  recumbent  letter  I" 


ON  THE  GREAT  WHITE  WAY 

Actors'  Society.  Around  these  material  land- 
marks runs  an  invisible  but  insurmountable 
wall  of  clannishness  and  complacent  self-sat- 
isfaction. To  be  on  the  Great  White  Way 
you  have  only  to  leave  the  Subway  at 
Times  Square;  to  be  of  it  you  must  follow  the 
Biblical  camel  through  the  eye  of  a  needle. 

There  isn't  another  Great  White  Way  on  the 
face  of  the  earth.  Paris  has  its  Place  d' 
l'Opera,  London  its  Strand,  and  Vienna  its 
Ringstrasse,  but  these  resemble  New  York's 
theater  path  only  as  a  candle  resembles  an  arc 
light.  They  are  streets  given  up  to  seekers  af- 
ter pleasure;  the  Rialto  is  a  street  given  up  to 
seekers  after  pleasure,  and  to  seekers  after 
seekers  after  pleasure.  It  is  not  the  moths  at- 
tracted to  the  flame  that  lend  particular  inter- 
est to  the  Great  White  Way;  it  is  the  flame  it- 
self, coruscating,  scintillant,  multi-hued  and 
glowing.  Broadway,  within  the  limits  set  down, 
is  a  street  of  players  and  playhouses;  the  only 
mile  of  pavement  in  the  world  devoted  entirelv 
to  the  members  of  one  profession. 

195 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND   AFT 

Two  newspaper  buildings  rear  themselves 
defiantly  in  this  portion  of  New  York.  They 
seem  out  of  place,  though  newspaper  men  are 
night-workers,  too,  and  come  nearer  than  any 
other  class  of  men  to  being  of  The  Great  White 
Way.  A  few  tailors  and  haberdashers  have  in- 
truded themselves  into  the  district,  settling  be- 
side wig  makers  and  sellers  of  grease  paint,  but 
they  are  neither  numerous  nor  ostentatious. 
Broadway,  as  you  walk  from  Twenty-third 
Street  to  Forty-seventh,  unfolds  itself  to  the 
view  as  a  line  of  theaters,  theatrical  offices, 
agencies  and  all-night  restaurants.  Outsiders 
go  there  to  see  performances  and  to  eat;  in- 
siders make  of  it  a  world  of  their  own— a  queer 
little,  blear  little  world  of  unclear  visions,  ab- 
normal instincts,  unreal  externals  and  astig- 
matic sense  of  proportion. 

Parisians  call  their  actors  "AV  as-tu-vu" , 
which  means  "Have  you  seen  me?"  That 
is  because  the  first  question  a  French  actor 
asks  is  "Have  you  seen  me  in  such-and-such  a 
role?"    Your  true  American  actor  doesn't  waste 

196 


ON  THE  GREAT  WHITE  WAY 

time  with  a  question  of  that  sort.  He  feels  a 
peaceful  certainty  that  not  to  know  him  argues 
yourself  unknown,  and  he  wouldn't  like  to  hint 
at  such  obscurity  for  an  acquaintance.  Take 
all  the  talk  of  all  the  year  on  The  Great  White 
Way,  run  it  through  a  wringer,  and  you  will 
have  that  same  letter  I,  with  vanity  dripping 
from  every  inch  of  the  texture.  Such  egotism 
as  the  rest  of  creation  entertains  is  watered 
brandy  to  that  of  the  Thespian.  He  thinks  of 
only  one  thing,  he  can  talk  of  only  one  thing, 
all  the  affairs  in  the  world  are  inconsequential 
in  comparison  with  that  one  thing,  and  that 
one  thing  is  himself.  Stand  at  my  elbow  while 
I  halt  my  friend  Junius  B.  Starr  at  the  corner 
of  Fortieth  and  Broadway.  "How  are  you, 
old  man?"  say  I. 

"Fine",  is  his  reply.  "Been  playing  the 
'heavy'  with  Florence  Rant  since  November. 
Everybody  said  I  'hogged  the  show.'  " 

Half  a  block  farther  along  we  will  have  oc- 
casion to  mention  a  business  matter  to  Sue 
Brette.     "My  agent  tells  me  you  would  go  into 

197 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

vaudeville  if  you  had  a  'sketch.'  She  mentioned 
the  possibility  of  my  writing  one  for  you." 

"Yes.  I  spoke  to  her  about  your  giving 
me  a  part  like  the  one  I  played  in  'The  Great- 
ness of  the  Small.'  You  know  that  was  the 
engagement  I  lost  because  I  was  so  much  better 
than  the  leading  woman.  She  took  the  piece  off 
and  revived  'Across  the  Divide',  and  I  handed 
in  my  notice.  The  play  ended  with  me  dancing 
on  the  table — " 

Twenty  minutes  later  we  saunter  on  with  a 
store  of  minute  information  regarding  Miss 
Brette's  performance,  and  how  it  was  enjoyed 
by  the  world  at  large,  but  with  our  minds  still 
in  Darkest  Africa  so  far  as  the  business  of  the 
meeting  is  concerned. 

Most  people  are  self-conscious  when  they 
speak  highly  of  themselves.  Not  so  actors,  to 
whom  such  statements  as  "Everybody  said  I 
was  the  best  they  had  ever  seen"  or  "Alan  Dale 
came  three  nights  running  just  to  watch  me" 
are  simply  a  matter  of  course.  Long  thought  in 
this  strain  has  so  accustomed  the  people  of  the 

198 


"The  actor  sees  himself  so 
large,  and  the  rest  of 
the  world  so  small" 


ON  THE  GREAT  WHITE  WAY 

stage  to  talking  in  the  same  fashion  that  they 
find  nothing  extraordinary  about  it.  Then,  too, 
his  distorted  sense  of  proportion  makes  the 
actor  see  himself  so  large  and  the  rest  of  the 
world  so  small  that  he  cannot  conceive  of  any 
mind  which  will  not  grasp,  with  unalloyed  de- 
light, at  first-hand  information  regarding  him- 
self. Newspapers  have  flattered  your  average  his- 
trion  into  the  idea  that  an  eager  humanity  waits 
impatiently  for  accounts  of  his  most  unimportant 
doings.  During  the  term  of  my  press  agency, 
a  certain  comedienne  whose  specialty  is  burnt 
cork  ran  after  me  along  Broadway  one  after- 
noon, crying:  "Stop!  I've  got  a  great  news 
'story'  for  you." 

I  stopped.     "What  is  it?"  I  inquired. 

"A  man  came  up  to  me  as  I  was  leaving  the 
stage  door  and  said:  'Why,  you're  not  really 
colored,  after  all!'  " 

A  star  of  my  acquaintance  recently  dismissed 
an  excellent  business  manager  because  that  in- 
dividual mentioned  the  author  of  the  play  in 
his    advertising.       "You're    not    working    for 

201 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND   AFT 

Scribble;  you're  working  for  me",  was  his  com- 
ment. Another  has  ceased  to  be  a  friend  be- 
cause I  told  him  that  I  didn't  care  for  his  per- 
formance. A  third  has  clippings  of  the  criti- 
cisms that  have  treated  him  best  pasted  on  the 
inside  of  his  card  case  and  shows  them  to  you 
if  he  can  get  your  ear  and  your  button-hole. 

Everybody  talks  shop  a  good  deal,  but  shop 
is  the  only  thing  talked  on  The  Great  White 
Way.  Art  and  science  and  literature,  politics 
and  wars  and  national  calamities  have  no  in- 
terest, if  they  have  so  much  as  existence,  for  the 
player.  "Awful  catastrophe  that  earthquake 
in  'Frisco!"  I  exclaimed  to  an  intimate  I  met 
at  breakfast  five  or  six  years  ago. 

"By  George,  yes!"  said  he.  "Costs  me 
twenty  weeks  I  had  booked  over  the  Orpheum 
Circuit."  , 

Your  shoe  dealer,  though  he  converses  about 
shoes  from  eight  in  the  morning  until  six  at 
night,  at  least  drops  the  subject  during  the 
evening.  The  typical  histrion  reads  nothing  in 
the   papers  except  the   theatrical   news  and   re- 

202 


"Alan  Dale  came  three  nights  running" 


ON  THE  GREAT  WHITE  WAY 

fuses  steadfastly  to  discourse  on  aay  other  sub- 
ject.   This  is  equally  true  of  the  manager. 

The  theatrical  world  is  as  much  of  and  to 
itself  as  though  the  Rialto  were  a  tiny  island 
isolated  in  the  waters  of  the  Pacific.  It  has  its 
own  language,  its  own  daily  journal,  its  own 
celebrities  and  its  own  great  events.  The  jar- 
gon spoken  would  be  absolutely  unintelligible 
to  a  layman.  "I  doubled  the  heavy  and  a  char- 
acter bit  because  the  Guv'ner  said  cuttin'  every- 
thing down  was  our  only  chance  to  stay  out.  We 
hit  'em  hard  in  Omaha,  and  it  looked  like  a 
constant  sell  out  to  me,  but  the  Guv'ner  swore 
4ie  show  was  a  frost  and  we  was  playin'  to  pa- 
per." What  would  be  your  translation  of  this, 
gentle  reader?  Doesn't  sound  like  English, 
does  it?  Yet  it  is — English  as  you  hear  it  on 
Broadway. 

The  Telegraph  is  the  organ  of  the  theatrical 
profession.  It  is  a  morning  paper  published  at 
midnight  for  the  benefit  of  a  clientele  that  has 
plenty  of  time  for  reading  between  that  hour 
and  bed  time.    The  Telegraph  is  the  connecting 

205 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

link  between  the  last  editions  of  the  "yellow" 
evening  papers,  most  of  which,  by  the  way,  are 
pink,  and  the  "bull  dog  editions"  of  the  regu- 
lar morning  papers.  It  is  the  one  daily  in  the 
world  devoted  exclusively  to  sport  and  the  thea- 
ter. To  its  editorial  staff  and  its  readers  a  decla- 
ration of  war  between  England  and  France 
wouldn't  be  worth  half  the  space  given  to  a 
street  fight  between  two  matinee  idols.  The 
followers  of  this  journal  might  be  a  trifle 
shakey  as  to  the  identity  of  Christopher 
Wren,  but  they  could  answer  without  hesitation 
any  question  relating  to  "Ted"  Marks.  They 
are  awake  to  conditions,  physical  and  domestic, 
utterly  strange  to  outsiders,  and  understand 
personal  allusions  that  would  be  Greek  to  the 
best-informed  editorial  writer  on  The  London 
Times.  If  you  picked  up  a  newspaper  and  read 
"Famous  Sayings  of  Great  Men — Charles 
Hepner  Meltzer:  'If  it's  hair  it's  here'  "  you 
would  be  mystified,  yet  fifty  thousand  theatri- 
cal people  read  that  quip  on  the  day  of  its  pub- 
lication and  laughed  at  it  heartily. 

206 


ON  THE  GREAT  WHITE  WAY 

The  populace  of  The  Great  White  Way  is 
not  more  sharply  individual  in  its  mentality 
than  in  its  personality.  You  could  not  possi- 
bly mistake  the  types  that  congregate  on  street 
corners  or  shuttle  to  and  fro  on  business  bent. 
The  stoutish,  smooth-shaven,  commonplace- 
looking  young  fellow  who  passes  you  with  a 
stride  is  a  well-known  dramatic  author  whose 
latest  play  is  in  its  third  month  at  a  near-by  thea- 
ter. The  long-haired  man  behind  him  whom 
you  notice  because  of  his  deep-set  eyes,  his  ta- 
pering fingers  and  his  important  bearing  is  not 
the  great  genius  that  you  may  suppose  him,  but 
an  ambitious  provincialcome  to  town  to  market 
his  first  comedy.  Sybilla  Grant,  whose  real  name 
is  Carrie  O'Brien,  and  who  gets  eighteen  dollars 
per  week  for  wearing  a  five  hundred  dollar 
gown  conspicuously  in  the  chorus  at  the  Casino, 
drives  to  the  door  of  Rector's,  while  the  most 
prosperous  and  profitable  woman  star  in  Amer- 
ica walks  quietly  down  Broadway,  a  demure  lit- 
tle figure  in  a  gray  tailor-made  gown.  The  old 
actor,   with   frayed  linen   and   threadbare   suit, 

207 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

idles  about,  a  trifle  the  worse  for  liquor,  inquir- 
ing after  opportunities;  the  young  actor  flaunts 
along  in  company  with  a  well  known  theatrical 
lawyer  or  a  soubrette  conspicuous  for  the  fear- 
fulness  and  wonderfulness  of  her  millinery  and 
her  coiffure.  Dogs  you  see  in  plenty,  attached 
and  unattached,  but  no  children.  The  Great 
White  Way  is  a  childless  path. 

There  are  so  many  celebrities  on  Broadway 
that,  if  you  are  a  familiar  of  the  street,  you 
cease  to  regard  them  with  awe.  Men  and  wo- 
men whose  names  fill  newspapers  and  whose 
pictures  crowd  magazines  meet  you  at  every 
turn.  During  the  hour's  time  required  for 
lunching  I  have  seen  in  one  hotel  eating  room 
Henry  Arthur  Jones,  Charles  Klein,  John  Ken- 
drick  Bangs,  Winthrop  Ames,  George  Ade, 
Paul  West,  Edgar  Selwyn,  Roy  McCardell, 
Victor  Herbert,  Reginald  De  Koven,  Ray- 
mond Hubbell,  Manuel  Klein,  Archie  Gunn, 
Hy.  Mayer,  David  Warfield,  Frank  Keenan, 
Robert  Hilliard,  William  Faversham,  Wilton 
Lackaye,    Theodore    Roberts,    Henry    Miller, 

208 


"Gets  eighteen  dollars  per 
week  for  wearing  a  five 
hundred  dollar  gown" 


ON  THE  GREAT  WHITE  WAY 

Arnold  Daly,  W.  H.  Crane,  Francis  Wilson, 
Edmund  Breese,  Henry  Woodruff,  Sam  Ber- 
nard, Charles  J.  Ross,  Daniel  Frohman,  Hen- 
ry B.  Harris,  Lee  Shubert,  Fred  W.  Whitney, 
Charles  B.  Dillingham,  J.  W.  Jacobs,  Ben  Roe- 
der,  David  Belasco,  Joseph  Brooks,  Marc 
Klaw  and  Abraham  L.  Erlanger.  The  gentle- 
man who  was  sharing  my  table  called  attention 
to  the  gathering  and  remarked  that  if  the  build- 
ing should  tumble  about  our  ears,  the  result 
would  be  temporary  paralysis  in  theatricals. 

The  Great  White  Way  has  certain  hostelries 
at  which  certain  classes  in  "the  profession" 
lunch,  dine  and  sup  habitually.  Nearly  every 
manager  of  importance  in  New  York  goes  to 
the  Knickerbocker,  the  Madrid,  or  to  Rec- 
tor's, the  former  place  being  popular  also  with 
the  better  sort  of  actors.  Shanley's,  the  Astor, 
the  Cadillac,  Browne's  Chop  House  and 
Keene's,  which  is  in  the  old  home  of  the  Lambs 
Club,  also  are  popular,  while  the  faster  set, 
notably  including  the  well  known  women  of 
musical   comedy,   affect   Churchill's.   In   the   vi- 

211 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

cinity  of  The  Times  Building,  and  again  in  the 
neighborhood  of  The  Herald,  are  a  number  of 
little  restaurants  in  which  unlucky  players  and 
very  busy  managers  can  get  food  cheaply  and 
quickly.  These  places  are  to  be  recognized 
generally  by  the  white  enamel  lettering  on  their 
windows  and  by  the  fact  that  they  employ  wo- 
men as  waiters.  The  busy  manager  aforesaid 
goes  into  them  fearlessly;  the  unlucky  player 
contents  the  inner  man  in  the  rear  of  the  room 
and  then  stands  complacently  smoking  his  five 
cent  cigar  in  front  of  the  more  expensive  eating- 
house  next  door. 

There  is  the  same  divergence  of  character 
in  lodging  places  on  the  Rialto.  Above  Forty- 
second  Street  one  finds  fashionable  apartment 
houses  in  which  prominent  players  keep  rooms 
the  year  around.  Farther  down  are  hotels  in 
which  the  less-successful  histrion  stops  when  he 
is  in  town,  and  the  cross  streets  still  closer  to  the 
foot  of  the  The  Great  White  Way  are  full  of 
theatrical  boarding  houses,  in  which  a  good 
room  may  be  had  at  four  dollars  per  week  and 

212 


ON  THE  GREAT  WHITE  WAY 

food  and  lodging  at  sums  varying  from  seven  to 
ten  dollars.  The  four  clubs  that  appeal  es- 
pecially to  "the  profession"  are  the  Lambs,  the 
Players,  the  Greenroom  and  the  Friars.  The 
first  of  these  is  the  most  expensive,  the  most 
luxurious,  and  the  most  liked  by  the  gilded  set. 
It  occupies  a  new  and  beautiful  building  on 
Forty-fourth  Street  near  Broadway.  The 
Players,  founded  by  Edwin  Booth,  is  quiet,  con- 
servative and  elegant,  inhabiting  now,  as  it  did 
in  the  beginning,  an  old-fashioned  structure  in 
Gramercy  Park.  The  Greenroom  Club  and 
The  Friars  are  younger  and  crowd  themselves 
into  less  pretentious  quarters  on  Forty-seventh 
and  Forty-fifth  Streets.  The  Greenroom  caters 
especially  to  managers,  and  The  Friars  was 
founded  by  press  agents. 

The  theaters  near  Broadway  are  too  well 
known  to  call  for  much  comment.  They  in- 
clude all  the  playhouses  of  the  better  class, 
about  thirty-five  in  number,  beginning  with 
Wallack's  and  ending  with  the  New  Theater.  A 
great  majority  of  the  big— I'm  not  alluding  to 

213 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS-FORE   AND  AFT 

physical  appearance — producers  have  their  ex- 
ecutive offices  in  these  Temples  of  Thespis. 
The  Knickerbocker  Theater  Building  shelters 
many  of  them,  as  do  the  Broadway  Theater 
Building,  the  Gaiety  Theater  Building  and 
the  Putnam  Building.  Charles  Frohman  works 
in  a  tidy  and  well  furnished  apartment  in  the 
Empire  Theater  Building,  which  is  tenanted  al- 
most exclusively  by  his  staff.  The  Shuberts 
have  headquarters  in  what  was  once  the  Audu- 
bon Hotel,  opposite  the  Casino,  at  Broadway 
and  Thirty-ninth  Street,  and  Klaw  and  Erlan- 
ger  transact  their  business  in  the  New  Amster- 
dam Theater  Building.  The  New  York  Thea- 
ter Building,  the  Hudson  Theater  Building,  the 
George  M.  Cohan  Theater  Building,  the  Astor 
Theater  Building,  and  even  that  home  of  bur- 
lesque, the  Columbia  Theater  Building,  all  are 
honey-combed  with  offices. 

The  word  "honey-combed"  is  used  advised- 
ly. All  day  long,  all  year  'round  these  offices 
are  veritable  hives  of  business.  The  layman 
has  not  the  least  conception  of  the  amount  of 

214 


ON  THE  GREAT  WHITE  WAY 

activity  necessary  to  theatrical  production.  It 
is  not  too  much  to  say  that  such  an  office  as 
that  of  Klaw  &  Erlanger  is  visited  by  no  fewer 
than  two  thousand  persons  per  diem  and  that 
as  many  letters  are  dispatched  from  it.  Such 
buildings  as  those  mentioned  are  most  crowded 
from  July  to  December.  Regardless  of  the 
fact  that  theatrical  companies  are  made  up  now- 
adays almost  entirely  by  the  process  of  sending 
for  the  players  who  are  wanted,  thousands  of 
men  and  women  in  search  of  work  begin  their 
annual  promenade  late  in  June.  They  wait 
patiently,  hour  after  hour,  in  outer  offices, 
where  the  men  usually  find  seats  and  the  women 
generally  stand.  The  matinee  idol  who  last 
season  nightly  shouldered  the  blame  for  a  great 
crime  in  order  to  shield  the  brother  of  the  girl 
he  loved,  pushes  past  scores  of  girls  somebody 
loves  in  order  to  be  first  before  the  desk  of  the 
manager.  Through  the  long  summer  months, 
The  Great  White  Way,  whiter  than  ever  in  the 
dazzling  heat  of  the  sun,  is  thronged  with 
seekers    after   employment    in    the    most   over- 

215 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

crowded  profession  in  the  world.  From  place 
to  place  they  go,  from  manager's  office  to 
agency,  securing  nothing  more  definite  than  the 
suggestion  that  they  leave  their  names  and  ad- 
dresses. 

Of  late  the  Rialto  in  summer  has  been  so 
crowded  with  loungers  that  a  special  squad  of 
police  has  been  required  to  keep  the  way  open 
to  ordinary  pedestrains.  Knots  of  players,  the 
men  recognizable  by  their  smooth-shaven  faces 
and  mobile  mouths,  the  women  by  that  peculiar 
independence  of  convention  which  characterizes 
the  feminine  portion  of  "the  profession",  group 
themselves  everywhere.  Seeing  a  hub  of  peo- 
ple, with  projecting  spokes  made  up  of  dogs  on 
strings,  you  may  be  quite  sure  of  the  conversa- 
tion. "I  could  'a'  been  with  'Get-Rich-Quick 
Wallingford',  but  everybody  had  it  touted  for 
a  failure,  so  I  signed  for  stock  in  Minneapolis. 
We  only  lasted  two  weeks.  If  the  manager'd 
had  any  nerve,  I  think  we'd  'a'  won  out.  The 
whole  town  was  talking  about  my  work  in 
'Salomy  Jane',  and,  my  dear,  you  know  what  I 

216 


ON  THE  GREAT  WHITE  WAY 

could  V  done  in  'Brewster's  Millions'  1" 

The  soil  most  favorable  to  the  growth  of 
these  groups  is  in  front  of  the  Actors'  Society, 
the  Metropolitan  Opera  House,  the  Knicker- 
bocker Theater  Building,  and  the  Putnam  Build- 
ing. The  "sportier"  class  of  men  congregate 
before  the  Hotel  Albany,  where  they  cooly  ogle 
the  women  who  pass.  Never  by  any  chance  does 
one  find  a  manager  in  a  gathering  like  this — 
not  even  a  salaried  manager  or  a  press  agent. 
"Hold  themselves  aloof",  you  think;  and  they 
do,  not  only  from  these  folk  of  the  lower  crust, 
but  from  the  best  class  of  actors  as  well.  Race 
hatred  and  political  prejudice  are  as  nothing  in 
comparison  with  the  feeling  between  the  busi- 
ness man  of  the  theater  and  the  player.  Each 
despises  the  other,  more  or  less  secretly,  and, 
except  on  the  neutral  ground  of  the  Lambs', 
each  "herds"  alone. 

The  Great  White  Way  is  most  nearly  de- 
serted at  nine  in  the  morning.  Then  the 
rounder  has  gone  to  bed  and  the  workman  has 
not  yet  risen.     Surface  cars  laden  with  human- 

217 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

ity  pass  and  repass,  but  they  do  not  disgorge  in 
the  Rialto.  The  shop  doors  yawn  widely,  dis- 
playing blank  faces  to  the  straggling  typists 
who  wander  by.  Hotel  dining-rooms  are  de- 
serted, chairs  piled  upon  the  tables,  and  sleepy 
waiters  leaning  disconsolately  against  the  walls. 
Lowered  curtains  betray  the  tardiness  of  the 
people  whose  duty  it  is  to  open  the  offices  of 
agents,  play-brokers,  and  managers.  Even  the 
theater  lobbies  are  vacant.  Ten  o'clock  brings 
prosperous-looking  men,  hustling  to  and  fro; 
and  eleven  sees  the  beginning  of  the  actors'  par- 
ade. By  noon  Broadway  is  a  river  of  human- 
ity, flowing  steadily  to  the  sea  of  Ambition. 

It  is  not  until  night,  however,  that  it  becomes 
clear  why  the  street  should  have  the  name  that 
has  been  given  it.  Then  the  hundreds  of  queer- 
looking  signs  you  have  seen  through  the  day 
suddenly  take  on  light  and  life;  burning  blue 
birds  fly  "for  happiness",  glittering  chariot- 
horses  race  beneath  illuminative  memoranda  of 
the  virtues  of  table  waters,  sparkling  wine 
pours   itself  iridescently  into  a  glowing  glass; 

218 


ON  THE  GREAT  WHITE  WAY 

millions  of  little  electric  jewels  flash  in  the 
darkness;  whole  buildings  burst  into  premedi- 
tated flame;  facades  blaze  like  giant  fireworks 
ignited  for  a  festival;  and  Broadway  becomes 
in  truth  The  Great  White  Way.  Standing  be- 
side The  Herald  Building  and  staring  north- 
ward, one  sees  a  horizontal  tower  of  glistening 
globes,  the  "river  of  humanity"  with  a  won- 
derful electric  display  on  its  banks.  The  cars 
now  begin  to  give  up  throngs  from  their  light- 
ed interiors,  pedestrians  block  the  sidewalks, 
policemen  shrill  their  regulation  of  traffic,  at 
Forty-second  Street  and  Seventh  Avenue  the 
crush  of  carriages  is  well-nigh  impassible.  Fif- 
ty thousand  people  pour  into  the  playhouses,  to 
pour  out  again  three  hours  later,  super-man  to 
become  supper  man,  and  to  add  his  grandeur, 
and  his  lady's,  to  the  crowded  lobster  palaces 
that  line  this  dazzling  path  of  pleasure.  These 
are  darkened  in  time,  and  there  are  left  only  the 
all-night  restaurants.  The  streets  grow  quiet, 
and  the  pink  dawn,  unseen  save  by  the  watch- 
men, unfolds  itself  over  the  house-tops.     One 

219 


THE    FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

by  one  the  stars  disappear,  fading  into  the  day, 
as  will  those  other  stars,  so  little,  so  infinites- 
imal, so  transient  a  part  of  that  tiny  world 
which  they  in  their  vainglory  have  christened 
The  Great  White  Way. 


220 


WHAT  HAPPENS  AT  REHEARSALS 


Being  something  about  the  process  by  which  perform- 
ances are  got  ready  for  the  pleasure  of  the  public  and  the 
profit  of  the  ticket  speculators. 


OU  see,  I've  been  fishing,  too." 
"Hello!      Only  you-" 
"Wait!    Mr.    Leeds,    I've    told 
you  a  dozen  times  to  count  five  before  that  en- 
trance !" 

"I  thought  I—" 

"Never  mind  what  you  thought!  Go  back! 
Now  1" 

"Hello!  Only  you  two  here!  What's  be- 
come of — " 

"Wait!  .  .  .  Flynn,  take  this  entrance 
for  the  sunset  cue.  Dim  your  borders  and 
throw  in  your  reds.  .  .  .  Now,  Mr. 
Leeds,  once  more !" 

Doesn't  make  sense,  does  it?  Yet  this  is  a 
commonplace  passage  from  an  ordinary  dress 
rehearsal.     Anybody  really  connected  with  thea- 

221 


THE    FOOTLIGHTS-FORE   AND  AFT 

tricals  could  translate  the  extract  at  a  glance, 
but  intimate  knowledge  of  the  stage,  and  its 
language,  is  gained  only  by  actual  experience. 
Of  the  method  of  producing  plays,  more  has 
been  written  and  less  is  generally  understood 
than  of  any  other  common  process.  The  out- 
sider who  devotes  an  hour  to  watching  a  re- 
hearsal is  as  well  qualified  to  describe  that  func- 
tion as  you  or  I,  after  seeing  a  ship  steam  down 
the  bay,  would  be  to  pen  a  treatise  on  the  sci- 
ence of  navigation. 

Most  laymen  have  a  vague  idea  that  theatri- 
cal performances  spring  into  being  full-fledged, 
like  birds  which  prestidigitators  hatch  by  the 
simple  expedient  of  shooting  at  the  cage.  If  this 
statement  seems  far-fetched,  you  have  but  to 
read  the  stories  of  the  playhouse  written  by 
clever  men,  like  O.  Henry  and  Hamlin  Garland, 
whose  wide  knowledge  of  most  things  under 
the  sun  does  not  seem  to  extend  to  things  under 
the  calcium. 

Rehearsals  are  much  more  than  aimless  walk- 
ing  and   talking,    as   navigation    is   more   than 

222 


WHAT  HAPPENS  AT  REHEARSALS 

the  turning  of  a  wheel.  Their  direction  is  a 
fine  art,  a  very  fine  art,  not  the  least  unlike  the 
painting  of  a  miniature,  and  one  must  compre- 
hend something  of  this  art  to  explain  or  de- 
scribe it. 

There  are  many  points  of  similarity  between 
a  performance  and  a  painting,  which  must 
create  an  impression  without  reminding  the 
spectator  of  the  brush-strokes  which  made  that 
impression  possible.  The  preparation  of  a  play 
is  a  succession  of  details.  It  is  astonishing  how 
small  a  thing  can  cause  the  success  or  failure,  if 
not  of  the  whole  work,  at  least  of  an  incident 
or  an  episode.  A  pause,  a  movement,  an  ex- 
pression, a  light  or  a  color  may  defeat  or  carry 
out  the  intention  of  the  dramatist. 

William  Gillette's  melodrama,  "Secret  Ser- 
vice", has  a  scene  in  which  a  telegraph  opera- 
tor, dispatching  military  orders,  is  shot  in  the 
hand.  When  the  piece  was  given  its  initial 
hearing,  Mr.  Gillette,  in  the  role  of  the  opera- 
tor, upon  receiving  the  wound  ( i )  bandaged 
his  hand  with  a  handkerchief,    (2)    picked  up 

223 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

his  cigar,  and  (3)  went  on  "sending."  There 
was  no  applause.  The  second  night  the  "bus- 
iness" was  changed.  The  operator  ( 1 )  picked 
up  the  cigar,  (2)  bandaged  his  hand,  and  (3) 
went  on  "sending."  The  audience  was  vocifer- 
ous in  its  approval.  This  particular  instance 
of  the  importance  of  trifles  is  easily  explained. 
That  a  wounded  man's  first  thought  should  be 
to  care  for  the  wound  is  not  remarkable,  but 
that  his  first  thought  should  be  of  his  cigar  sug- 
gests pluck  and  intrepidity  which  the  spectators 
were  quick  to  appreciate.  Frequently,  how- 
ever, author  and  actors  experiment  for  months 
before  finding  the  thing  that  makes  or  mars  a 
desired  effect. 

The  play-goer  who  believes  himself  a  free 
agent  does  not  understand  the  art  of  the  thea- 
ter. That  art  being  perfect,  he  restrains  his 
laughter  and  waits  with  his  applause  until  the 
precise  moment  when  the  stage  director  wants 
him  to  laugh  or  applaud.  It  often  happens 
that  a  laugh  may  spoil  a  dramatic  situation,  or 
that  applause  may  not  be  desirable   at   a   par- 

224 


WHAT  HAPPENS  AT  REHEARSALS 

ticular  time.  For  example,  if  an  audience  is 
permitted  to  vent  its  enthusiasm  over  some  stir- 
ring incident  just  before  the  end  of  an  act  the 
applause  after  the  act  will  be  appreciably  less, 
and  the  number  of  curtain  calls  will  be  smaller. 
It  is  a  simple  matter  of  mechanics  to  "kill"  a 
laugh  or  a  round  of  applause,  just  as,  in  many 
cases,  the  impression  made  by  an  actor  in  a  situ- 
ation may  depend,  not  upon  himself,  but  upon 
a  detail  of  stage  direction. 

When  two  actors  have  an  important  dia- 
logue, each  wants  to  stand  farther  "up  stage" 
— which  is  to  say  farther  from  the  footlights 
— than  the  other,  because  the  person  fartherest 
"up  stage"  is  most  likely  to  dominate  the  scene. 
"It's  no  use",  I  once  heard  William  A.  Brady 
say  to  a  veteran,  who  was  rehearsing  with  a 
young  woman  star.  "She  knows  the  tricks  as 
well  as  you  do,  and  she'll  back  through  the  wall 
of  the  theater  before  she'll  give  you  that  scene  !" 

The  position  of  the  player  being  of  such 
consequence,  it  will  be  seen  at  once  that  actors 
do  not,   as  is  commonly  believed,   roam  about 

225 


THE    FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND   AFT 

the  stage  at  will.  In  point  of  fact,  they  are 
practically  automata,  reflecting  the  brain-pic- 
tures of  the  director  and  working  out  his 
scheme.  It  is  not  unusual  for  the  man  in  charge 
of  a  rehearsal  to  instruct  one  of  his  puppets  to 
"take  six  steps  to  the  right  at  this  speech",  or 
to  "come  down  stage  four  steps."  No  person 
in  a  performance  ever  "crosses"  another  per- 
son— that  is,  passes  behind  or  in  front  of  that 
other  person — without  having  been  told  just 
when  and  how  to  do  so.  That  movement  which 
seems  least  premeditated  often  has  been  most 
carefully  planned,  and  you  may  be  sure  that,  at 
the  performance  you  are  witnessing,  everybody 
on  the  stage  knows  to  the  fraction  of  a  yard 
where  he  or  she  will  be  standing  at  a  given  mo- 
ment. Edwin  Booth's  reply  to  a  novice  who 
inquired  where  he  should  go  during  a  long 
speech — "Wherever  you  are  I'll  find  you" — 
would  not  be  possible  from  a  stage  director  of 
today. 

While   this   pre-arrangement  may   appear  to 
the  layman  to  be  opposed  to  any  semblance  of 

226 


WHAT  HAPPENS  AT  REHEARSALS 

life  and  spontanaeity,  it  is  absolutely  necessary 
to  the  giving  of  a  smooth  performance.  If  ac- 
tors really  "felt  their  parts"  they  would  be 
about  as  dependable  as  horses  that  "feel  their 
oats",  and  the  representation  in  which  they  took 
part  would  soon  become  utterly  chaotic.  Fancy 
the  awkwardness  of  Bassanio,  in  the  trial  scene 
of  "The  Merchant  of  Venice",  looking  around 
to  find  Shylock  before  inquiring:  "Why  dost 
thou  whet  thy  knife  so  earnestly?" 

Nor  would  this  uncertainty  be  the  worst  ef- 
fect of  such  unpreparedness.  On  the  stage  every 
move,  every  gesture  means  something;  conveys 
some  impression.  Thus,  in  a  dialogue  in  which 
one  character  is  defying  another,  a  single  step 
backward  will  produce  the  effect  of  cowardice, 
or  at  least  of  weakness  and  irresolution,  in  the 
person  who  retreats.  The  whole  tension  of  a 
scene  may  be  lost  if  one  of  the  parties  to  it  so 
much  as  glances  down  or  reaches  out  for  some 
necessary  article. 

In  the  enactment  of  "The  Traitor",  a  dra- 
matization of  the  novel  by  Thomas  Dixon,  Jr., 

227 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

we  found  that  a  certain  passage  between  the 
"lead",  or  hero,  and  the  "heavy",  or  villain, 
failed  of  its  intended  effect.  The  hero,  John 
Graham,  is  brought  into  court  handcuffed,  and 
seated  in  the  prisoners'  dock.  Steve  Hoyle  goes 
to  him  with  a  taunt.  It  was  thought  veracious, 
even  suggestive  of  manliness,  that  Graham, 
hearing  the  taunt,  should  rise  angrily,  as  though 
prevented  only  by  his  bonds  from  striking  his 
foe.  After  two  weeks  of  guessing  and  experi- 
menting, we  discovered  that  this  very  natural 
movement,  for  some  reason  still  inexplicable, 
gave  the  impression  of  weakness.  It  is  minutae 
like  this  that  must  be  considered  at  rehearsal, 
and  taught  so  carefully  that  the  actor  moves, 
as  it  were,  in  a  groove,  swerving  from  the  de- 
termined course  only  as  a  needle  in  a  sewing 
machine  swerves  in  its  downward  stroke. 

Accent  and  facial  expression  are  planned  by 
the  stage  director  with  the  same  absolutism  that 
marks  his  attention  to  manouvrc.  Few  actors 
can  be  counted  upon  to  read  every  line  intelli- 
gently, and  frequently  the  person  in  charge  must 

228 


'If  actors  really  'felt  their  parts'  " 


WHAT  HAPPENS  AT  REHEARSALS 

stop  a  rehearsal  to  point  out  an  underlying 
thought.  "You  blur  that  speech",  the  director 
may  say  to  the  actor.  "You  don't  define  the 
changes  of  thought  which  it  implies.  See  here ! 
Jones  says:  'I'll  go  to  her  with  the  whole 
story.'  You  listen.  Your  first  emotion  is  sur- 
prise. 'You  will?'  Suspicion  enters  your  mind. 
'Then  you '  The  suspicion  becomes  cer- 
tainty. 'Then  you  love  her,  too !'  "  Thus,  more 
frequently  than  will  be  believed  by  the  hero- 
worshipper,  the  much  admired  tone  in  which 
some  big  speech  is  delivered  is  the  tone  of  the 
teacher. 

So  much,  so  very  much,  may  depend  upon  the 
emphasis  given  a  single  word.  The  art  of  speak- 
ing, however,  is  not  more  part  and  parcel  of  a 
perfect  performance  than  the  art  of  listening. 
The  director  not  only  rehearses  the  manner  of 
giving  a  sense,  but  the  manner  of  receiving  it. 
He  must  note  pronunciations,  too,  and,  if  there 
is  an  odd  or  foreign  name  in  the  play,  he  must 
take  care  that  all  his  people  pronounce  it  alike. 
The  length  of  pauses,  the  tempo  of  comic  or  se- 

231 


THE    FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

rious  conversations,  the  light  and  shade  of  the 
entire  representation  depend  upon  his  compe- 
tence. 

Drama  is  the  Greek  word  for  action,  and  so, 
in  a  play,  what  the  people  do  is  even  more  im- 
portant than  what  they  say.  Practically  every 
motion  made  on  the  stage,  except  that  of  walk- 
ing, comes  under  the  head  of  what  is  known 
technically  as  "business."  Laymen  who  believe 
that  mummers  act  on  their  own  initiative,  even 
"making  up"  lines  as  they  go  along,  will  be  sur- 
prised to  learn  that  the  manuscript  of  a  work- 
manlike play  contains  more  "business"  than  dia- 
logue. The  performer  picks  up  a  photograph 
or  lights  a  cigar  or  toys  with  a  riding  whip,  not 
because  it  has  occurred  to  him  to  do  so,  but  be- 
cause the  author  has  written  down  what  he 
must  do,  and  how  and  when  he  must  do  it,  and 
the  stage  director  has  taught  him  properly  to 
interpret  the   author. 

Here  is  a  page  from  the  "prompt  copy"  of 
"Clothes."  The  unbracketed  sentences  are  dia- 
logue;   those  in  parenthesis  are  "business": 

232 


WHAT  HAPPENS  AT  REHEARSALS 

WEST. 

I'm  going  to  marry  you  in  spite  of 


(Checks  himself  suddenly.  Gets  his  hat  and 
brushes  it  with  his  sleeve.  Laughs  a  lit- 
tle.) 

Pardon  me.      My  temper  is  a  jack-in-the-box. 

The  cover  is  down  again.     Goodnight. 

(Walks  quickly  to  door  L.  C,  and  exits. 
OLIVIA  stands  still  a  moment,  then 
throws  herself  into  chair  R.,  of  table,  and 
indulges  in  a  torrent  of  tears.  The  bell 
rings.  She  sits  upright  and  listens.  It 
rings  again.  She  rises  and  runs  to  door 
L.  2.  E.    The  MAID  enters.) 

The  capital  letters — L.  C,  R.,  and  L.  2.  E. 
are  abbreviations  of  terms  that  indicate  ex- 
act spots  on  the  stage.  You  see,  it  is  not  left 
to  the  discretion  of  West  by  which  door  he  shall 
leave  the  room,  nor  of  Olivia  into  which  chair 
she  shall  throw  herself.  This  "business"  the 
director  works  over  at  rehearsal,  elaborating, 
amplifying,  making  clear.     West  is  told  precise- 

233 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND   AFT 

ly  where  he  must  find  his  hat,  with  which  arm 
he  must  brush  it,  in  what  tone  he  must  laugh. 
If  this  were  a  case  where  a  pause  would  height- 
en the  effect  of  an  entrance,  the  maid  would  be 
informed,  as  was  the  mythical  Mr.  Leeds  in  my 
opening  paragraphs,  how  many  she  must  count, 
which  is  to  say  how  long  she  must  wait,  before 
entering. 

The  more  experienced  an  author,  the  more 
definite,  exhaustive  and  significant  his  "busi- 
ness." When  a  play  goes  into  rehearsal,  how- 
ever, there  are  always  places  where  speech  may 
be  exchanged  for  action,  and  often,  after  a 
dramatist  has  seen  his  work  on  the  stage,  he  is 
able  to  cut  whole  pages,  the  sense  of  which 
is  made  clear  by  the  appearance,  the  manner,  or 
the  "business"  of  his  people. 

There  are  various  kinds  of  "business",  and 
of  different  purpose.  The  old-fashioned  stage 
director  used  to  invent  dozens  of  meaningless 
things  for  actors  to  do,  merely  to  "fill  in",  or 
give  the  appearance  of  activity.  It  is  related 
that,  when  the  farce,  "It's  All  Your  Fault",  was 

2.34 


WHAT  HAPPENS  AT  REHEARSALS 

being  rehearsed,  the  man  in  charge  insisted  that 
Charles  Dickson,  who  was  supposed  to  be  call- 
ing at  the  room  of  a  friend,  should  "fill  in"  a 
long  speech  by  taking  a  brush  from  a  bureau 
drawer  and  brushing  his  hair. 

"But",  protested  Mr.  Dickson,  "I'm  simply 
visiting.     I  can't  use  another  man's  brush." 

"Can't  help  that  I"  said  the  director.  "There 
are  long  speeches  here,  and  you  must  do  some- 
thing while  they  are  being  spoken." 

This  kind  of  stage  management,  however,  is 
no  longer  general.  It  is  understood  now  that 
the  best  way  to  make  a  speech  impressive  is  to 
stand  still  and  speak  it,  so  that  actors  are  not 
often  given  by-play  without  some  good  reason. 

"Business"  may  supply  "atmosphere",  as  the 
spectacle  of  a  man  rubbing  his  ears  and  blowing 
on  his  hands  helps  create  the  illusion  of  intense 
cold.  In  the  original  production  of  "In  the 
Bishop's  Carriage",  Will  Latimer,  imperson- 
ated by  a  very  slight  young  fellow,  was  supposed 
to  cowe  Tom  Dorgan,  a  thug  of  enormous  bulk. 
The  scene  never  carried  conviction,   until  our 

235 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND   AFT 

stage  director  hit  upon  an  ingenious  bit  of 
"business."  He  put  a  telephone  on  the  table 
that  stood  between  the  two  men.  Dorgan  made 
a  movement  toward  Latimer.  Latimer,  without 
flinching  or  taking  his  eyes  from  Dorgan's  face, 
laid  his  hand  on  the  telephone.  That  gesture 
suggested  a  world  of  power,  the  police  station 
within  reach,  law  and  society  standing  back  of 
Latimer.     It  saved  the  situation. 

Much  "business"  is  obvious  and  essential,  as 
Voysin's  fumbling  in  his  wife's  dressing  table, 
in  "The  Thief",  since  this  fumbling  leads  to  the 
discovery  of  the  bills  upon  the  purloining  of 
which  the  play  is  built.  If  a  small  article  is  to 
be  used  importantly  in  a  performance  it  must  be 
"marked",  so  that  the  audience  will  know  what 
it  is  and  so  that  it  will  not  seem  to  have  ap- 
peared miraculously  to  fit  the  occasion.  The  pa- 
per cutter  falls  off  the  table  in  the  first  act  of 
'The  Witching  Hour",  not  by  accident,  but  by 
carefully  thought  out  design,  so  that  the  au- 
dience will  know  where  the  instrument  is  and 
recognize  it  when  Clay  Whipple  uses  it  to  kill 

236 


WHAT  HAPPENS  AT  REHEARSALS 

Tom  Denning.  "Business",  in  a  word,  may  be 
the  smashing  of  a  door  or  the  picking  up  of  a 
pin.  It  is  the  adornment  that  makes  an  other- 
wise bald  and  unconvincing  narrative  seem  real ; 
that  translates  mere  dialogue  into  the  semblance 
of  every-day  life. 

Many  plays — even  most  plays — are  substan- 
tially altered  at  rehearsal.  Dion  Boucicault,  the 
great  Irish  dramatist,  said:  "Plays  aren't  writ- 
ten; they  are  rewritten."  It  has  been  proved 
utterly  impossible  to  judge  the  effect  of  a  play 
from  the  manuscript,  to  know  the  merit  of  any 
story  or  episode  until  it  is  visualized,  translated 
into  action.  Some  time  ago,  William  Gillette 
finished  a  farce,  "That  Little  Affair  at  Boyd's", 
to  which  he  had  devoted  the  greater  part  of  a 
year,  and  in  which,  therefore,  he  must  have  had 
considerable  faith.  Yet,  after  a  week's  rehears- 
al, he  dismissed  the  company  engaged  and  aban- 
doned the  idea  of  producing  the  piece.  The 
soundness  of  his  judgment  was  demonstrated  lat- 
er when  this  farce,  re-christened  "Ticey",  was 
revived  and  failed  utterly. 

237 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND   AFT 

When  defects  manifest  themselves  at  re- 
hearsal, the  director  does  not  hesitate  to  make 
or  to  suggest  changes,  the  directness  of  his  course 
depending  upon  the  standing  of  his  author.  No 
dramatist  is  a  hero  to  his  stage  director.  Al- 
so, while  we're  parodying  maxims,  it's  a  wise 
author  that  knows  his  own  play  on  its  first  night. 

The  playwright  is  quick  to  learn  humility. 
"Who's  that  meek-looking  chap?"  somebody 
once  asked  Augustin  Daly  during  the  course 
of  a  trial  performance.  "That!"  returned 
Daly.  "Oh,  that's  only  the  author!"  If  a  di- 
rector is  employed,  the  writer  makes  his  sugges- 
tions through  that  gentleman.  Sometimes  the 
experience  of  the  producer,  who  brings  a  fresh 
mind  to  the  subject,  is  surer  than  the  instinct  of 
the  author,  who  may  easily  have  lost  sense  of 
perspective  from  long  association  with  his  work. 

"The  Three  of  Us",  a  well-known  domestic 
comedy,  depends  for  its  chief  interest  upon  a 
scene  in  the  third  act,  where  Rhy  MacChesney 
pays  a  midnight  visit  to  Louis  Berresford.  When 
the  piece  was  put  into  rehearsal,  the  idea  was 

238 


WHAT  HAPPENS  AT  REHEARSALS 

that  Berresford,  hearing  a  knock  at  the  door, 
bade  the  girl  hide  herself,  which  she  did,  only 
to  be  discovered  later.  George  Foster  Piatt,  the 
stage  director,  who  recently  filled  that  post  at 
the  New  Theater,  objected  that  this  was  trite, 
conventional,  unnecessary.  "Why  shouldn't  the 
young  woman  tell  the  truth — that  she  came  on 
a  perfectly  legitimate  errand,  meaning  no  harm, 
and  that  she  has  nothing  to  fear — and  refuse  to 
hide?"  The  author  adopted  his  view,  a  new 
scene  was  written,  and  the  play,  largely  because 
of  the  unexpectedness  of  this  turn  of  affairs,  ran 
for  an  entire  year  at  the  Madison  Square. 

The  knowledge  of  the  stage  director  must 
cover  the  mechanical  features  of  production  as 
well  as  the  literary.  It  is  essential  that  he  should 
understand  the  full  value  of  light  and  scenic 
effects,  and  how  to  produce  them.  A  stage  may 
be,  and  generally  is,  illuminated  by  means  of  five 
different  devices — from  the  "borders",  which 
are  directly  overhead;  from  calciums,  in  the  bal- 
cony or  on  either  side  of  the  stage;  from  spot 
lights,  which  really  are  calciums  whose  light  is 

239 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND   AFT 

focused  upon  one  spot;  from  footlights,  and 
from  "strips",  which  are  placed  wherever  light 
from  more  remote  sources  would  be  obstructed. 

The  "borders"  are  long,  inverted  troughs, 
stretching  from  the  extreme  left  of  the  stage  to 
the  extreme  right  and  suspended  from  the  roof 
of  the  theater.  When  it  is  said  that  the  light 
coming  from  the  "borders",  or,  indeed,  from 
anywhere  else,  may  be  raised  or  lowered,  may 
be  white  or  blue  or  red  or  amber,  or  a  combina- 
tion of  these  colors,  reproducing  the  glow  of  a 
lamp,  or  the  first  gray  glimmer  of  sunrise,  it  will 
be  understood  that  the  director  has  a  wide  range 
of  effects  at  his  command. 

Just  as  the  reading  of  a  line  may  alter  the 
impression  created  by  an  entire  passage,  so  may 
the  least  variation  in  illumination.  Comedy 
scenes,  for  example,  must  be  played  in  full  light, 
as  sentimental  scenes  are  helped  by  half  lights. 
If  you  could  witness  the  second  act  of  "Charley's 
Aunt"  performed  in  the  steel  blue  of  moonlight, 
and  the  last  act  of  "Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde" 
in  the  glare  of  "full  up",  you  would  be  amazed 

240 


WHAT  HAPPENS  AT  REHEARSALS 

at  the  result. 

Color  has  as  subtle  an  influence.  I  have  seen 
the  people  in  a  play  fairly  melt  into  the  back- 
ground of  a  yellow  setting,  causing  their  action 
to  seem  vague  and  illy-defined.  Augustus  Thom- 
as' "The  Harvest  Moon"  had  a  scene  in  which 
the  same  subject  matter  was  repeated  succes- 
sively in  different  settings.  Unless  you  had  wit- 
nessed this  performance,  you  would  hardly  be- 
lieve how  wholly  unlike  were  the  impressions 
produced.  Costumes  and  music  have  an  equal 
portence,  and  both  call  for  the  exercise  of  nice 
discretion. 

The  personality  of  the  stage  director,  and  his 
manner  at  rehearsal,  are  vital  considerations.  In 
acting,  more  than  in  any  other  art,  the  feeling  of 
the  artist  reaches  through  his  work.  Everyone 
who  has  watched  rehearsals  has  come  to  the  con- 
clusion, at  one  time  or  another,  that  actors  are 
something  less  than  human.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
they  are  simply  children,  calling  for  the  patience, 
the  forbearance,  and  the  flexibility  of  view-point 
necessary  in  a  nursery.  Wholly  self-centered,  hav- 

241 


THE    FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND   AFT 

ing  little  contact  with  the  outside  world,  their 
standards,  their  emotions,  their  false  valuations 
make  constant  difficulties  for  the  man  who  has 
to  play  upon  them  as  upon  a  piano. 

The  dramatic  instinct  and  the  egregious  ego 
form  a  provoking  blend.  I  have  known  an  ac- 
tress, at  a  dress  rehearsal,  the  night  before  the 
public  performance  of  a  play,  to  go  into  violent 
hysterics,  apparently  reduced  to  a  nervous  wreck 
by  the  strain  of  her  work.  "Great  heavens!"  I 
have  said  to  the  director;  "she  won't  be  able  to 
appear  tomorrow."  "Acting,  my  boy",  that 
gentleman  would  reply.  "Acting  for  our  bene- 
fit and  her  own.  She'll  be  all  right  in  ten  min- 
utes." And  in  ten  minutes  this  same  woman, 
done  with  her  scene,  would  be  advancing  most 
logical  reasons  why  she  should  have  somebody's 
dressing  room  and  why  somebody  else  should 
have  been  given  her's.  I  don't  know  exactly 
what  temperament  is,  but  most  actors  think  they 
have  it. 

Player  folk  are  full  of  superstitions,  and  many 
of  these  relate  to  rehearsal.       Few  actors  will 

242 


WHAT  HAPPENS  AT  REHEARSALS 

speak  the  "tag",  or  last  line,  of  a  play  until  its 
premiere.  If  that  line  were  spoken  the  play 
would  fail.  Managers  are  not  exempt  from  sim- 
ilar ideas,  a  mixture  of  ignorance  and  experience. 
A  good  final  rehearsal  is  supposed  to  forecast  a 
bad  first  performance,  and  this  notion  is  not 
without  reason,  since  the  people,  made  sure  of 
themselves,  are  pretty  certain  to  lose  the  tension 
of  nervousness.  When  the  actors  like  a  play  at 
rehearsal  the  manager  grows  fearful.  An  actor 
usually  likes  best  the  play  in  which  he  has  the 
best  part,  and  that  is  not  invariably  the  best 
play. 

Small,  indeed,  is  the  share  of  glory  that  goes 
to  "the  power  behind  the  throne."  His  name 
adorns  no  bill-boards,  and,  on  the  program,  you 
will  find  it  most  frequently  among  the  announce- 
ments that  the  shoes  came  from  Hammersmith's 
or  that  the  wigs  are  by  Stepner.  The  manager 
knows  the  stage  director,  though,  and  respects 
him,  reputation  of  this  kind  being  more  profit- 
able than  reputation  with  the  great,  careless  pub- 
lic. 

243 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

Some  few  managers,  like  David  Belasco  and 
Collin  Kemper,  attend  to  the  staging  of  their 
own  productions,  and,  indeed,  are  most  noted  for 
their  skill  in  this  work.  Many  authors,  among 
the  number  Augustus  Thomas,  James  Forbes 
and  Charles  Klein,  "put  on"  their  own  plays. 
Then  there  are  "General  Stage  Directors",  like 
William  Seymour  or  J.  C.  Huffman,  employed  at 
so  much  per  annum  by  big  firms  like  those  of 
Charles  Frohman  or  the  Shuberts.  There  are 
also  detached  directors,  who  contract  to  stage  a 
play  here  or  there  at  sums  varying  from  five 
hundred  to  a  thousand  dollars  for  each  piece. 
Julian  Mitchell,  R.  H.  Burnside  and  George 
Marion  head  the  list  of  men  who  make  a  spe- 
cialty of  producing  musical  comedy,  which  is  a 
field  in  itself.  A  broad  distinction  exists  between 
the  stage  director  and  the  stage  manager,  the 
province  of  the  latter  being  only  to  carry  out 
the  plans  of  the  former. 

A  dramatic  composition  is  rehearsed  from  two 
to  four  weeks,  the  rehearsals  usually  lasting  from 
ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  until  five  in  the  even- 

244 


WHAT  HAPPENS  AT  REHEARSALS 

ing,  with  an  hour  for  luncheon.  The  play  be- 
ing finished  and  accepted,  the  manager  turns  the 
manuscript  over  to  the  stage  director.  This 
gentleman  reads  it  carefully,  realizing  possibili- 
ties and  devising  "business."  I  have  known  auth- 
ors to  write,  and  directors  to  read,  with  a  minia- 
ture stage  beside  them.  On  this  stage,  pins  would 
take  the  place  of  people,  being  moved  here  and 
there  as  one  situation  followed  another.  The 
exact  location  of  the  characters  at  every  speech 
was  then  marked  on  the  manuscript,  so  that  lit- 
tle or  no  experimenting  was  necessary  at  rehears- 
al. 

After  he  has  read  the  play,  the  director  con- 
sults with  the  author  and  the  manager  and  the 
scene  painter.  He  helps  the  manager  decide  what 
actors  had  best  be  engaged,  and  the  four  de- 
termine every  detail  of  the  settings  to  be  built 
and  painted.  Miniatures  of  these  settings  are 
afterward  prepared  by  the  artist  and  officially 
O.  K.'d.  The  manager  interviews  such  people 
as  he  thinks  he  may  utilize,  and  comes  to  terms 
with  them.     Actors  are  not  paid  for  time  spent 

245 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

in  rehearsal,  and,  if  they  prove  unsatisfactory 
before  the  initial  performance,  may  be  dismissed 
without  notice  and  without  recompense. 

It  is  an  old  custom,  now  in  the  way  of  being 
revived,  to  begin  operations  by  reading  the  play 
to  the  company.  The  first  rehearsals  may  take 
place  in  a  hall,  but,  whenever  it  is  possible,  a 
stage  is  brought  into  requisition.  In  the  centre 
of  the  stage,  directly  back  of  the  footlights,  is  the 
prompt  table,  at  which  sit  the  author,  the  direc- 
tor, and  the  stage  manager.  The  players,  when 
they  are  not  at  work,  lounge  in  remote  corners, 
leaving  the  greater  portion  of  the  floor  space 
cleared  for  action.  There  is  no  scenery,  no  fur- 
niture, no  "properties."  Two  stools,  with  a 
space  between  them,  may  stand  for  Juliet's  bal- 
cony, for  the  Rialto  Bridge,  or  merely  for  a 
window  in  a  modern  apartment  house.  The 
casual  observer  may  be  puzzled  at  hearing  some 
Thespian  harranguing  to  four  vacant  chairs,  un- 
til it  is  explained  that  these  four  chairs  mark  the 
corners  of  a  jury  box  in  which  twelve  good  men 
and  true — same  being  "supers"  yet  to  be  em- 

246 


WHAT  HAPPENS  AT  REHEARSALS 

ployed — are  to  try  the  hero  for  his  life. 

In  the  beginning  the  actors  read  lines  from 
their  parts.  A  "part"  contains  the  speeches  and 
"business"  of  the  actor  for  whom  it  is  intended, 
with  "cues",  or  the  last  few  words  of  each  speech 
preceding  his,  so  that  he  may  know  when  to 
speak.  An  extract  from  the  "part"  of  the 
Queen  in  "Hamlet"  (Act  m;  Scene i)  would 
look  something  like  this: 

(You  enter  L.  3.  E.) 
Did  he  receive  you  well? 

free  in  his  reply. 

Did  you  assay  him  to  any  pastime? 

he  suffers  for. 

I  shall  obey  you.    Etc. 

The  director  shows  the  actor  where  he  shall 
stand,  and  where  go,  at  every  speech,  and  the 
stage  manager  notes  on  the  manuscript  such 
"business"  as  is  not  already  written  in  it.  Al- 
so, he  sets  down  memoranda  for  the  raising  and 
"dimming"  of  lights,  the  ringing  of  bells,  and 
other  things  to  be  done  "off  stage." 

247 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

After  a  couple  of  days'  rehearsal  the  players 
may  be  told  that  they  must  have  the  lines  of  the 
first  act  committed  to  memory  within  a  certain 
time.  "Letter  perfect  on  Thursday!"  says  the 
director.  "Don't  forget;  I  want  to  hear  every 
'if,  'and',  and  'but'  spoken  on  Thursday!" 

So,  act  by  act,  the  piece  is  learned,  and,  within 
a  week,  "parts"  are  put  away,  and  the  real  work 
of  rehearsal  begins.  By  this  time,  the  "rough- 
ing out"  of  the  production  has  been  done,  posi- 
tions have  been  taught,  and  the  director  begins 
devoting  himself  to  details.  Throughout  the 
first  fortnight  he  interrupts  frequently;  compels 
the  people  to  go  back  a  dozen  times  over  this 
scene  or  that;  halts,  thinks  out  trifles,  suggests 
and  experiments.  When  the  rehearsals  are  two- 
thirds  done,  however,  he  and  the  author  break  in 
less  and  less  often.  They  sit,  notebooks  in  hand, 
jotting  down  their  observations,  which  are  read 
aloud  to  the  company  at  the  end  of  each  act. 

Meanwhile,  the  director  has  attended  to  sev- 
eral important  matters  with  which  the  cast  has 
no  immediate  concern.   He  has  made  out  a  list  of 

248 


WHAT  HAPPENS  AT  REHEARSALS 

"properties",  or  small  articles  to  be  handled  in 
the  performance,  and  has  given  it  to  the  man- 
ager. This  list  requires  care.  For  example,  if 
matches  are  needed  in  the  play,  it  must  be  as- 
certained what  kind  of  matches  were  used  at  that 
period,  and  sulphur,  parlor,  or  "safety"  matches 
must  be  specified.  The  manager  must  also  be 
given  lists  of  furniture  and  draperies.  Later  on, 
a  table  of  "music  cues"  must  be  made  out  for 
the  orchestra,  and  one  of  "light  cues"  for  the 
electrician.  The  play  must  be  timed,  so  that  it 
may  be  known  to  a  minute  at  what  hour  the  cur- 
tain will  rise  and  fall  on  every  act.  Generally, 
a  page  of  typewritten  manuscript  will  occupy  a 
minute,  but  guess  work  on  this  point  does  not  suf- 
fice for  the  director.  The  players  begin  to  con- 
sult him  about  their  costumes,  too,  and  he  must 
take  into  account  the  blending  of  colors,  the 
fashions  of  the  period,  and  the  personal  charac- 
teristics likely  to  manifest  themselves  in  attire. 

I  wish  I  could  make  you  see  a  theater  during 
the  progress  of  a  rehearsal.  The  great  auditor- 
ium is  dark  and  vacant,  but  for  two  or  three 

249 


THE    FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

cleaners,  who  may  be  sweeping  and  dusting. 
White  cloths  cover  the  seats,  and  hang  over  the 
facades  of  the  boxes.  Through  the  center  of  the 
stage,  just  behind  the  footlights,  a  gas  pipe  rears 
itself  to  a  height  of  five  or  six  feet,  and  a  single 
jet  burns  at  the  end  of  it.  Close  beside  this  pipe 
is  the  table  I  have  mentioned,  where,  with  their 
backs  to  the  auditorium,  sit  three  very  busy,  very 
attentive  gentlemen.  Farther  on  the  stage,  which 
is  bare  except  for  a  couple  of  tables  and  a  few 
chairs,  stand  two  or  three  actors,  attired  in  street 
dress,  talking  in  a  fashion  utterly  out  of  keeping 
with  their  every-day  appearance.  And  on  all 
sides  are  little  groups  of  men  and  women,  who 
pay  no  attention  to  the  people  in  the  scene  and 
to  whom  the  people  in  the  scene  pay  no  attention, 
who  laugh  and  chat  in  subdued  tones  until  some 
"cue"  brings  them  into  the  action. 

One  day  a  notice  appears  on  the  call  board. 
The  company  will  leave  from  the  Grand  Central 
Station  the  next  morning  at  7  :20  o'clock.  The 
destination  may  be  Syracuse,  N.  Y.  The  hotels 
in  that  city  are  so-and-so.     The  theater  is  the 

250 


"This  is  the  first  time  the 
director  has  seen  them 
'made  up,'  and  he  is  likely 
to  have  many  suggestions'* 


WHAT  HAPPENS  AT  REHEARSALS 

New  Wieting.  There  will  be  a  dress  rehearsal 
there  tomorrow  night  at  8.  "Everybody  will 
please  be  made  up  half  an  hour  earlier." 

The  dress  rehearsal  is  the  crowning  ordeal  in 
the  business  of  producing  plays.  It  is  the  sum- 
ming up  of  everything  that  has  gone  on  before; 
the  concentration  into  one  evening  of  all  the 
work  and  nervous  strain  of  the  past  month.  It 
is  safe  to  say  that  in  no  other  profession  is  so 
much  labor  and  agony  crowded  into  a  single  ef- 
fort. Very  often  dress  rehearsals  last  from 
eight  o'clock  at  night  until  eight  the  next  morn- 
ing. Sometimes  they  last  longer.  The  dress  re- 
hearsal of  "The  Burgomaster",  at  the  Manhat- 
tan Theater,  New  York,  began  at  noon  on  Sun- 
day and  continued,  without  intermission,  un- 
til eleven  o'clock  Monday.  Frequently,  cof- 
fee and  sandwiches  are  served  in  one  of  the 
dressing  rooms,  or  on  the  stage,  and  the  tired 
players  snatch  a  bite  or  two  between  scenes. 

The  director  has  been  in  the  theatre  all  the 
afternoon,  superintending  the  setting  of  scenes 
and  the  "dressing"  of  the  stage,  which  means  the 

253 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

placing  of  furniture  and  the  hanging  of  curtains. 
Half  an  hour  before  the  rehearsal  begins,  the 
members  of  the  company  come  from  their 
rooms,  one  by  one,  for  an  inspection  of  costumes. 
This  is  the  first  time  the  director  has  seen  them 
"made  up",  and  he  is  likely  to  have  many  sug- 
gestions. This  wig  isn't  gray  enough,  that  beard 
is  too  straggling,  the  dress  over  there  isn't  in 
character.  Back  go  the  actors  to  remedy  these 
defects,  and  after  a  time  the  rehearsal  is  started. 
Dress  rehearsals  invariably  are 'prefaced  by 
the  managerial  announcement  that  there  will  be 
no  interruptions,  but  I  have  never  seen  an  unin- 
terrupted dress  rehearsal.  The  leading  man  stops 
in  the  middle  of  a  love  scene  to  inquire  what  he 
shall  do  with  his  bouquet,  or  the  leading  woman 
to  complain  that  the  property  man  hasn't  placed 
a  bundle  of  letters  where  it  ought  to  be.  I  re- 
member that,  when  we  came  to  the  final  rehearsal 
of  "The  Little  Gray  Lady",  the  manager,  Mau- 
rice Campbell,  finished  his  remarks  about  inter- 
ruptions, and  called  upon  the  orchestra  to  be- 
gin the  overture.    The  orchestra  promptly  struck 

2.54 


^- 


"The  interruption  came  on  the  spot' 


WHAT  HAPPENS  AT  REHEARSALS 

up  "The  Dead  March  from  Saul",  and  the  for- 
bidden interruption  came  on  the  spot. 

A  dress  rehearsal  is  supposed  to  be  an  ordin- 
ary performance  without  an  audience.  But  it 
isn't.  There  is  no  excitement,  no  enthusiasm,  no 
inspiration.  Speeches  fall  flat,  dialogue  seems 
inordinately  long  and  wearisome,  bits  of  "busi- 
ness" that  have  appeared  all  right  before  look 
wholly  different  in  changed  surroundings.  The 
actors,  finding  themselves  for  the  first  time  in  the 
setting  to  be  used,  are  utterly  lost.  By-play  with 
small  articles,  rehearsed  twenty  times,  is  blun- 
dered over  when  the  player  finds  the  "prop"  ac- 
tually in  his  hands.  To  observe  the  most  ex- 
perienced actor,  and  man  of  the  world,  handle 
a  tea  cup  or  a  card  case  at  a  dress  rehearsal  you 
would  swear  that  he  had  never  seen  such  a  thing 
before  in  his  life. 

And,  O,  the  wickedness  of  inanimate  things — 
doors  that  will  not  shut,  matches  that  cannot  be 
lit,  table  drawers  that  positively  refuse  to  open ! 
Whenever  something  of  this  sort  goes  wrong,  the 
carpenter  or  the  property  man  has  to  be  called 

257 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

upon,  and  the  scene  stops,  to  be  resumed  later 
with  a  flatness  commensurate  with  the  length  of 
the  halt.  Above  all  other  sounds  rings  the  clari- 
on voice  of  the  director,  shouting  to  electricians, 
stage  hands,  actors.  Everybody  makes  notes,  to 
be  quietly  gone  over  with  the  company  on  the 
morrow,  just  before  the  actual  performance. 

At  last,  when  the  gray  dawn  is  peeping  in  at 
the  windows,  when  everyone  concerned  has 
reached  the  ultimate  stage  of  exhaustion,  the  re- 
hearsal is  dismissed.  The  director  makes  a  few 
remarks — sufficient  censure  to  prevent  over-con- 
fidence, mixed  with  enough  hope  to  give  cour- 
age. "Pretty  bad",  he  says,  "but  I  look  for  you 
to  pull  up  tonight.  We'll  get  together  for  a  lit- 
tle chat  at  four  o'clock  in  the  smoking  room  of 
the  theater." 

Thus  ends  the  period  of  rehearsal — a  period 
of  hard  work,  trials,  tribulations,  constant  ner- 
vous strain.  And  it  may  all  go  for  nothing.  In 
three  short  hours  the  labor  of  years  on  the  part 
of  the  author,  of  months  on  the  part  of  the  man- 
ager, of  weeks  on  the  part  of  the  players,  may  be 

258 


•\  s-JV"y*'^y 


"Matches  that  cannot 
be  lit" 


WHAT  HAPPENS  AT  REHEARSALS 

proved  utterly  worthless  and  without  result. 
This,  however,  depends  upon  the  public;  those 
concerned  have  done  all  they  know,  all  that  can 
be  done,  not  by  random  and  haphazard  work; 
but  by  skillful  following  of  what  is  at  once  an 
exact  science  and  a  variable  art.  The  philosophic 
author  shrugs  his  shoulders  as  he  leaves  the 
theater. 

"Well?"  inquires  the  stage  director. 

"Well",  he  replies.  "We've  done  our  best. 
It's  on  the  knees  of  the  gods." 


261 


THE  ART  OF  ''GETTING  IT  OVER" 


Being  the  sort  of  title  to  suggest  a  treatise  on  suicide, 
whereas,  in  point  of  fact,  this  chapter  merely  confides  all 
the  author  does  not  know  about  acting. 


E 


VEN  in  a  dictionary  of  slang,  inquisi- 
tive reader,  you  will  not  find  the 
phrase,  "getting  it  over."  "Art  has  its 
own  language,"  and  the  language  of  dramatic 
art  sometimes  is  fearful  and  wonderful  to  con- 
template. In  this  particular  idiom,  "it"  stands 
for  an  impression  or  expression,  and  the  precise 
boundary  that  the  impression  or  expression 
"gets  over"  is  the  footlights.  Do  I  make  my- 
self clear?  As  to  the  art  of  "getting  it  over," 
that  is  a  thing  about  which  no  two  people  are 
likely  to  agree.  When,  on  the  first  night  of  F. 
Ziegfeld's  "Follies  of  19 10,"  a  lady  named  Lil- 
lian Lorraine,  ensconced  in  a  swing  and  two 
gorgeous  silk  stockings,  was  projected  into  the 
tobacco  smoke  above  the  third  row  of  orchestra 
seats,   a   great  many   star-gazers   united   in   the 

262 


Sn 


JJ" 


"/^  /«dy,  ensconced  in  a  swing  and  two 
gorgeous  silk  stockings,  was  projected  above 
the  third  row  of  orchestra  seats" 


THE  ART  OF  "GETTING  IT  OVER" 

idea  that  her  manager  had  solved  the  problem. 
Paul  Potter's  comedy,  "The  Honor  of  the 
Family,"  was  a  melancholy  failure  at  8.40 
o'clock  on  the  evening  of  its  premiere  in  the 
Hudson  Theater.  At  8.42  Otis  Skinner,  in  the 
character  of  Colonel  Philippe  Bridau,  his  ag- 
gressive high  hat  tilted  at  an  insolent  angle,  his 
arrogant  cane  poking  defiance,  had  walked  past 
a  window  in  the  flat,  and  the  piece  was  a  suc- 
cess. Without  speaking  a  word,  without  doing 
the  least  thing  pertinent  to  the  play,  Mr.  Skin- 
ner had  reached  out  into  the  auditorium  and 
gripped  the  interest  of  sixteen  hundred  bored 
spectators.  This  is  so  fine  a  demonstration  of 
the  thesis  that  my  article  really  should  be  ad- 
vertised as  "with  an  illustration  by  Otis  Skin- 


ner." 


"In  that  instant,"  the  rescuer  said  after- 
ward, "I  knew  I  had  them."  Any  actor  would 
have  known.  "Getting  it  over,"  vague  as  "the 
phrase  may  be  to  a  layman,  is  almost  a  physi- 
cal experience  to  the  man  or  woman  who  ac- 
complishes it.     The  thought  sent  out  seems  as 

265 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

material  a  thing  as  a  handball,  "and,"  once  re- 
marked Richard  Mansfield,  "I  can  see  it  go 
smashing  past  the  footlights  and  into  the  brains 
of  my  auditors,  or  striking  an  invisible  wall 
across  the  proscenium  arch  and  bouncing  back 
to  the  stage." 

The  ability  to  send  the  thought  smashing  is 
surprisingly  separate   from   the  art  of  acting. 
Many  schooled  and  skilled  performers,  whose 
names  are  omitted  from  this  chronicle  because 
I  don't  want  to  swell  the  waiting  list  of  my 
enemies,    have   never   got    into   an    auditorium 
without  coming  through  the  door  back  of  the 
boxes.     Knowledge  may  be  power,  but  it  isn't 
propulsion.     Nothing  is  more  brainless  than  a 
mustard    plaster,    yet    it    draws.      George    W. 
Lewes  wrote  several  illuminative  works  on  his- 
trionism,  and  we  have  the  word  of  A.  B.  Walk- 
ley  that  his  Shylock  made  tender-hearted  per- 
sons glad  that  Shakespeare  died  in  the  seven- 
teenth century. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  are  mediocre  mimes 
who  possess  the  faculty  of  establishing  immedi- 

266 


"The  thought  sent  out  seems  as  material 
a  thing  as  a  handball.    Sometimes,  I  can 
see  it  striking  an  invisible  wall  and 
bouncing  back  to  the  stage" 


THE  ART  OF  "GETTING  IT  OVER" 

ate  communication  with  an  audience.  All  of 
us  have  applauded  the  chorus  girl  who,  while 
endeavoring  conscientiously  to  put  her  best  foot 
forward  at  the  exact  moment  and  in  the  precise 
manner  that  thirty  other  best  feet  advanced, 
has  scored  a  distinct  individual  success.  A 
young  woman  did  that  on  the  first  night  of 
Peter  Dailey's  "The  Press  Agent"  at  the  Hack- 
ett.  She  was  fined  $5  for  it,  but  another  chor- 
ister, whose  name  is  Elsie  Ferguson  and  who  at- 
tracted attention  in  "The  Girl  From  Kay's,"  is 
starring  this  year  under  direction  of  Henry  B. 
Harris. 

Call  it  art,  truth,  intelligence,  personality, 
magnetism,  telepathy,  hypnotism — Edwin  Ste- 
vens, in  a  recent  interview,  called  it  hypnotism 
— or  the  wanderlust  of  a  personally-conducted 
aura,  the  fact  remains  that  there  is  a  something 
by  which  some  actors,  without  visible  effort, 
convey  a  distinct  and  emphatic  impression.  We 
have  seen  John  Drew  step  upon  the  stage,  and, 
even  while  the  applause  lingered  over  his  en- 
trance, shed  a  sense  of  elegance,  manner  and 

269 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

mastery.  We  have  responded  to  the  charm  of 
John  Barrymore  and  A.  E.  Matthews  before 
they  opened  their  mouths  to  speak.  We  have 
absorbed  the  radiance  of  May  Irwin's  good  hu- 
mor, we  have  felt  unbidden  the  piquancy  of 
Marie  Tempest,  we  have  laughed  at  a  look 
from  Bert  Williams,  and  we  have  been  awed 
when  William  Gillette,  walking  on  as  though 
there  was  nothing  in  the  wind,  has  portentously 
and  with  sinister  purpose  flicked  the  ashes  from 
the  tip  of  his  cigar. 

No,  friends  and  fellow  dramatic  critics,  this 
is  not  acting.  The  art  and  experience  of  acting 
may  go  into  it,  but  acting  can  not  be  held  to  ac- 
count for  what  happens  before  a  man  begins  to 
act.  The  curtain  rising  on  the  second  act  of 
"Such  a  Little  Queen"  discloses  two  girls,  a 
telephone  operator  and  a  stenographer,  chatting 
obliviously  while  a  clerk,  at  the  other  end  of 
the  office,  robs  the  mail.  It  is  important  that 
the  robbery  should  register,  else  much  that  fol- 
lows can  not  be  understood.  For  a  long  time, 
when  we  were  rehearsing,  it  seemed  impossible 

270 


"William  Gillette  portentously 
flicked  the  ashes  from  his  cigar" 


THE  ART  OF  "GETTING  IT  OVER" 

to  get  this  theft  over  the  footlights.  The  girls 
were  pretty,  their  dialogue  was  breezy,  and, 
for  catching  the  mind,  a  word  in  the  mouth  is 
worth  two  conveyed  by  pantomime.  Our  clerk, 
a  capable  enough  young  fellow,  simply  could 
not  get  the  attention  of  the  audience.  After  he 
had  failed  to  do  so  at  several  trial  perform- 
ances, Frank  Keenan,  who  was  staging  the  play, 
mounted  the  rostrum  and  took  his  place.  Mr. 
Keenan  did  exactly  what  had  been  done  by  his 
predecessor.  His  movements,  like  the  other 
man's,  were  according  to  the  book;  his  facial 
expression  was  the  same,  and,  of  course,  he  did 
not  speak.  But  he  held  us — Heavens,  how  he 
held  us !  Every  eye  was  on  him  the  instant  the 
curtain  lifted,  and,  for  all  the  notice  they  got, 
the  girls  might  as  well  have  been  painted  on  the 
proscenium  arch.  Even  after  that,  the  original 
couldn't  do  it.  While  he  was  robbing  the  mails, 
we  had  to  rob  the  females  of  every  distracting 
line  of  dialogue.  Wherever  Frank  Keenan  sits 
is  the  center  of  the  stage. 

If  you  ask  me— and  we'll  assume  that  you 

273 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

have  asked  me — what  is  responsible  for  this 
sort  of  an  achievement,  I  shall  answer  "self."  T 
don't  mean  personality.  I  mean  that,  whether 
he  wishes  it  or  not,  what  "gets  over"  isn't  so 
often  what  a  man  thinks  or  desires,  but  what 
he  is.  The  same  thing  is  true  of  painters  and 
sculptors  and  novelists — -"For,"  said  Walter 
Bagehot,  "we  know  that  authors  don't  keep 
tame  steam  engines  to  write  their  books" — and 
how  much  more  likely  is  it  to  be  true  of  the  art- 
ist who  is  himself  the  expression  of  his  art.  In 
the  footlight  trough  of  a  burlesque  theater  in 
the  Bowery,  invisible  to  the  audience  but  staring 
the  performers  in  the  face,  is  the  legend: 
"Smile,  ladies,  smile!"  Yet  these  ladies,  thus 
perpetually  reminded,  never  spread  the  conta- 
gion of  merriment  and  good  humor  for  which 
a  Puritan  community  would  have  quarantined 
Blanche  Ring.  Don't  tell  me  Miss  Ring  is  an 
artist.     She  isn't,  but  she's  jolly! 

The  board  of  governors,  or  the  house  com- 
mittee, or  whatever  it  is  that  directs  the  des- 
tinies of  the   Passion   Play  at  Ober-Ammergau 

274 


THE  ART  OF  "GETTING  IT  OVER" 

isn't  far  wrong,  if,  as  is  reported,  it  insists  upon 
purity  in  its  Madonna  and  beneficence  in  its 
Man  of  Sorrows.  Imagine  a  woman  of  notori- 
ously evil  life,  or  even  of  evil  life  that  wasn't 
notorious,  impersonating  Sister  Beatrice  in  the 
marvelous  miracle  play  of  Maeterlinck's.  A 
gentleman  who  had  driven  four  Avives — tandem 
— to  death  or  the  divorce  court  would  have 
been  an  offense  as  Manson  in  "The  Servant  in 
the  House."  Mr.  Forbes-Robertson  is  an  ad- 
mirable artist,  but  it  was  his  spirituality,  his  as- 
ceticism that  "got  over"  in  his  delightful  por- 
trayal of  The  Third  Floor  Back.  Certainly,  it 
isn't  the  frankness  of  lines,  verbal  or  anatomi- 
cal, that  makes  the  difference  between  a  musi- 
cal comedy  and  a  salacious  "girl  show."  It's 
the  intention;  the  character  of  producer  and 
produced. 

"Robert  Loraine  isn't  a  good  actor,"  Wil- 
liam A.  Brady  said  to  me  once,  "but  he's  sure  to 
be  a  popular  star,  because  of  the  vigor,  the  viril- 
ity, the  fresh  young  manhood,  the  breath  of  out- 
doors that  he  sends  over  the  footlights."     Con- 

275 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

sider  the  lilies  in  the  cheeks  of  Billie  Burke,  and 
then,  if  you  can  tear  yourself  away  from  that 
floricultural  exhibition,  consider  the  box-office 
value  of  the  youth  that  spills  itself  from  the 
lips  of  Wallace  Eddinger  and  Douglas  Fair- 
banks. All  the  genius  of  Mrs.  Fiske  couldn't 
make  an  audience  believe  in  her  motherhood  in 
"The  Unwelcome  Mrs.  Hatch"— "I  wouldn't 
trust  her  with  a  baby  of  mine,"  whispered  a 
woman  in  the  first-night  audience  at  the  Man- 
hattan— but  how  we  felt  the  maternalism  of 
Jennie  Eustace  in  "The  Witching  Hour,"  and, 
in  another  way,  of  Jessie  Millward  in  "The 
Hypocrites."  Hedwig  Reicher  is  a  capital  ac- 
tress, but  she  is  also  a  self-reliant  woman,  and 
her  skill  couldn't  win  sympathy  for  her  sup- 
posed helplessness  in  "The  Next  of  Kin." 

Two  years  ago  T  was  trying  terribly  to  make 
prospective  audiences  sense  the  pitiful  plight  of 
poor  little  Anna  Victoria  in  "Such  a  Little 
Queen."  I  wrote  a  dozen  lines  as  to  the  dis- 
comfort of  starvation,  the  inconvenience  of 
being  put  into  the  street.    They  were  things  that 

276 


THE  ART  OF  "GETTING  IT  OVER" 

thought,  and  then  I  remembered  that,  when  I 
came  to  New  York  with  nothing  but  my  "cheek" 

a  woman  might  say  under  the  circumstances,  I 
and  two  dollars  in  money,  I  used  to  look  out  of 
the  windows — the  window — of  my  top-story 
room  and  think:  "In  all  this  great  city  there 
isn't  a  human  being  who  cares  whether  I  live 
or  die."  These  very  words  I  put  into  the  mouth 
of  Anna  Victoria,  and,  of  all  my  fine  speeches, 
that  was  the  only  one  that  really  "got  over." 

It  "got  over"  because  it  was  true,  and  be- 
cause, whatever  else  truth  may  be — has  any  one 
ever  satisfactorily  answered  Pontius  Pilate? — 
it  is  the  best  bullet  one  can  shoot  across  the  foot- 
lights. Vicarious  experience  sometimes  does 
the  trick,  but  only  for  persons  of  highly  devel- 
oped mimetic  faculty.  I  remember  a  woman  in 
a  play  who  was  supposed  to  receive  her  death 
blow  with  an  "Oh,  my  God  I"  She  was  par- 
ticularly requested  not  to  scream  it,  or  to  groan 
it,  or  to  do  anything  else  conventional  with  it. 
It  was  to  be  a  helpless  "Oh,  my  God!",  a  hope- 
less "Oh,  my  God!",  an  "Oh,  my  God!"  that 

277 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS-FORE   AND  AFT 

sounded  like  the  thud  of  a  hammer  at  the  heart. 
One  night  she  got  the  tone.  "How?"  we  asked. 
"I  heard  a  woman  say  it  in  the  street.  An  am- 
bulance surgeon  had  told  her  her  baby  was 
dead." 

The  first  principle  of  "getting  it  over,"  then, 
is  being,  feeling,  believing.  It  is  a  principle 
that  draws  interest.  Believing  is  very  import- 
ant. Do  you  think  John  Mason  could  have 
held  his  audience  through  the  episode  under  the 
electrolier  in  "The  Witching  Hour"  if  he 
hadn't  believed  in  it?  I  don't.  Perriton  Carlyle, 
in  "The  Little  Gray  Lady,"  made  a  mistake.  It 
was  a  bad  mistake,  composed  chiefly  of  a  hun- 
dred dollars  that  didn't  belong  to  him.  I  never 
knew  any  one  in  my  life  who  hadn't  stolen  some- 
thing sometime,  and  many  of  my  friends  are 
pretty  respectable  now.  I  believed  that  Car- 
lyle's  foot  had  slipped,  and  that,  in  spite  of  the 
accident,  he  might  walk  straight  the  rest  of  his 
days.  I  couldn't  get  an  actor  to  believe  it.  Ed- 
gar Selwyn  didn't,  and  Eugene  Ormonde  didn't, 
and,   while  they  played  the  part,  nobody  did. 

278 


THE  ART  OF  "GETTING  IT  OVER" 

John  Albaugh,  Jr.,  an  actor  inferior  to  both  of 
them,  felt  sure  of  the  inherent  goodness  of  Car- 
lyle,  and  so  made  possible  the  success  of  a  piece 
that  could  not  have  succeeded  without  universal 
sympathy  for  its  hero. 

Well,  we've  ridden  a  long  way  astride  of  a 
hobby.  Let's  get  back,  and  admit  that  we  like 
sugar  on  our  strawberries,  which  is  to  say  art 
with  our  nature.  For,  after  all,  a  generous  ad- 
mixture of  skill  is  required  in  the  expression  of 
instinct,  just  as  the  peach-bloomiest  complexion, 
displayed  in  the  high  light  of  the  theater,  must 
have  rouge  upon  it  to  seem  what  it  really  is. 
Every  stage  manager  knows  the  genuine  so- 
ciety girl  who  is  engaged  to  lend  verisimilitude 
to  a  drawing-room  drama,  and  who,  at  rehears- 
als, regards  her  teacup  as  though  it  were  some 
strange  and  savage  animal. 

Edwin  Booth's  Othello  was  the  triumph  of 
an  artist.  He  made  audiences  forget  that  his 
embodiment  of  the  Moor  was  a  thin-chested, 
undersized  student  of  sensitive  face  and  dreamy 
eyes.     Charles  Kean's  first  appearance  in  Lon- 

279 


THE    FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

don  was  as  Macbeth,  and  his  Lady  Macbeth,  a 
great  woman  in  both  senses  of  the  word,  re- 
fused to  play  opposite  a  leading  man  who 
"looked  like  a  half-grown  boy."  Afterwards, 
she  swore  that  he  grew  during  the  performance. 
Salvini  drawing  tears  from  an  audience  ignor- 
ant of  his  tongue  by  counting  from  one  to  an 
hundred;  Bernhardt  scolding  an  actor  in  the 
death  tones  of  Camille;  Margaret  Anglin  re- 
peating "Poor  little  ice-cream  soda"  until  her 
hearers  broke  down  sobbing— these  are  exam- 
ples of  pure  artistry,  of  "getting  over"  impres- 
sions without  even  a  thought  behind  them.  No 
one  who  knows  the  first  thing  about  the  theater 
can  underrate,  be  it  never  so  slightly,  the  value 
of  training,  of  experience;  the  effectiveness  of 
carefully-thought-out  "business",  of  inflection, 
of  nuance,  of  pitch,  of  rhythm,  of  all  the  things 
that  require  years  of  study,  labor,  and  persever- 
ance. 

Tully  Marshall,  whose  Hannock  in  "The 
City"  was  the  finest,  and  seemed  the  most  in- 
spired, acting  of  last  season,  tells  me  that  he 

280 


"Lady  Macbeth  swore  that 

he  grew  during  the  performance 


THE  ART  OF  "GETTING  IT  OVER" 

worked  out,  almost  mechanically,  every  thrill  in 
his  big  scene  at  the  end  of  Act  III.  Mr.  Mar- 
shall made  so  convincing  the  degeneracy,  the 
besottedness  of  the  character  that  I  have  heard 
laymen  insist  he  must  be  a  drug  fiend.  Yet  this 
actor  knows  exactly  how  he  produced  his  effects. 
Ethel  Barrymore,  on  the  other  hand,  knew  only 
that  she  had  striven  for  years,  and  had  never 
quite  felt  herself  "go  smashing  past  the  foot- 
lights and  into  the  brains  of  her  auditors." 

Then,  on  the  first  night  in  New  York  of 
John  Galsworthy's  "The  Silver  Box,"  when,  as 
Mrs.  Jones,  charwoman,  she  stepped  down 
from  the  witness  stand,  silent,  but  thinking  with 
all  the  force  that  was  in  her  of  the  wretched, 
squalid  home  to  which  she  was  returning  alone, 
and  the  curtain  fell  between  her  and  the  vast 
stillness  of  the  awed  audience,  she  knew  that  at 
last  she  had  "got  it  over." 

"And,  oh!"  says  Ethel  Barrymore,  "I  found 
the  knowledge  sweet." 


283 


SOMETHING  ABOUT  "FIRST  NIGHTS" 


Wherein  is  shown  that  the  opening  of  a  new  play  is 
more  hazardous  than  the  opening  of  a  jackpot,  and  that 
theatrical  production  is  a  game  of  chance  in  comparison 
with  which  roulette  and  rouge-et-noir  are  as  tiddledewinks 
or  old  maid. 


WHILE  the  curtain  was  rising  and 
falling  after  the  third  act  of  "Sev- 
en Days",  then  being  given  its  in- 
itial performance  in  New  York  at  the  Astor 
Theater,  a  woman  behind  me  remarked:  "I'll 
bet  Hopwood  is  the  happiest  man  in  town  at 
this  moment  1" 

The  person  to  whom  she  alluded  was  Avery 
Hopwood,  collaborative  author  of  the  play  in 
question,  and  almost  any  auditor  in  the  house 
would  have  declined  to  take  the  other  side  of 
the  wager.  "Seven  Days"  was  an  obvious  suc- 
cess, an  unexpected  success,  and  a  sucess  that  had 
arrived  something  after  schedule  time.  Mr. 
Hopwood  had  shared  with  your  humble  servant 
the  credit  for  his  first  work,  "Clothes",  and  his 

284 


SOMETHING  ABOUT  FIRST  NIGHTS 

second  and  third  works,  "The  Powers  That  Be" 
and  "This  Woman  and  This  Man",  had  not 
called  the  fire  department  to  the  Hudson  River. 
Those  watchful  gentlemen,  the  managers,  who 
measure  a  dramatist  by  the  line  in  front  of  his 
box  office,  were  beginning  to  wonder  whether 
"Hopwood  really  can  write  a  play."  Here  was 
a  vociferous  answer  to  the  question — an  answer 
destined  to  be  repeated,  with  greater  emphasis, 
a  year  later  in  "Nobody's  Widow."  "Certain- 
ly", I  thought,  "Hopwood  is  the  happiest  man 
in  town  at  this  moment!" 

Subsequently,  on  my  way  out  of  the  Astor,  I 
came  within  an  ace  of  running  into  "the  happiest 
man."  He  was  standing  on  the  curb,  half  a 
block  north  of  the  theater,  and  he  didn't  "look 
the  part"  with  which  he  had  been  invested.  His 
tace  was  white  and  set,  his  brow  puckered  into 
deep  wrinkles,  and  his  chief  occupation  seemed 
to  be  the  nice  one  of  nibbling  the  skin  from 
his  knuckles  without  actually  lacerating  them. 
"Well",  he  inquired,  with  agonized  anxiety, 
"how  did  it  go?" 

285 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND   AFT 

"A  knockout!"  I  replied,  in  the  vernacular. 

"On  the  level?"  he  asked.  "You're  not  try- 
ing to  jolly  me?" 

There  was  no  suggestion  of  insincerity  in  the 
query.  It  was  evident  that  Diogenes,  if  he  had 
returned  to  look  for  the  happiest,  instead  of  for 
an  honest  man,  must  needs  have  gone  farther 
than  the  author  of  "Seven  Days." 

From  contact  with  other  victims  and  from 
personal  experience,  I  feel  qualified  to  say  that 
the  most  terrible  ordeal  known  since  the  days 
of  the  inquisition  is  a  theatrical  "first  night." 
Dramatist,  manager,  actors  and  even  stage  hands 
are  tortured  by  it,  and  their  sufferings  are  not  to 
be  gauged  by  the  number  of  times  they  have 
undergone  the  horror.  The  "first  night",  more- 
over, is  a  thing  unique  in  art.  A  painting  may 
hang  for  weeks  before  the  painter  learns  whether 
he  has  succeeded  or  not;  a  book  may  be  on  the 
market  nearly  a  year  without  its  author  knowing 
the  result  of  his  effort.  In  either  case,  criticisms 
are  many  and  varying.  The  verdict  on  a  play, 
however,  is  given  with  the  suddenness  and  force 

286 


SOMETHING  ABOUT  FIRST  NIGHTS 

of  a  blow,  and  sometimes  it  is  equally  conclu- 
sive. Failure  in  any  other  field  leaves  something 
in  the  way  of  assets;  theatrical  failure  sweeps 
away  everything.  Realize  this,  put  yourself  in 
the  place  of  those  most  concerned,  and  you  will 
understand  the  effect  of  a  "first  night."  Suppose 
that  all  your  possessions,  representing  the  labor 
of  a  life-time,  were  tied  together  and  suspended 
by  a  string  over  a  bottomless  abyss.  The  feel- 
ing with  which  you  would  watch  that  string  as 
it  stretched  to  the  breaking  point  would  be  akin 
to  the  feeling  with  which  the  dramatist  watches 
the  audience  come  to  pass  judgment  on  his  work. 
Of  course,  it  is  not  always,  or  often,  true  that 
a  single  production  either  makes  or  breaks  those 
concerned  in  it,  but  even  a  single  production  is 
so  large  an  element  in  this  making  or  breaking 
that  it  becomes  of  vital  importance.  Sometimes, 
too,  "first  night"  gatherings  are  wrong,  and  per- 
formances which  they  condemn  afterward  prove 
great  artistic  and  financial  hits.  This,  however, 
is  rare;  the  say  of  the  initial  audience,  made  up 
of  professional  reviewers  and  experienced  thea- 

287 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

ter-goers,  is  likely  to  be  conclusive.  Henrietta 
Crosman,  then  an  unknown  actress  from  the 
West,  came  to  New  York  with  "Mistress  Nell" 
on  October  9,  1900,  and  opened  to  receipts  un- 
der two  hundred  dollars.  A  single  day  later  the 
sums  being  paid  into  the  box  office  were  limited 
only  by  the  seating  capacity  of  the  house.  Hel- 
en Ware,  after  years  of  unrecognized  good  work 
in  small  parts,  achieved  stellar  honors  within 
the  three  hours  of  her  first  metropolitan  appear- 
ance as  Annie  Jeffries  in  "The  Third  Degree." 
No  chronicle  short  of  a  six-volume  book  could 
begin  to  give  an  account  of  the  playwrights  and 
players  whose  stock  has  soared  a  hundred  points 
during  the  course  of  a  single  evening  on  Broad- 
way. 

Failures  determined  with  equal  promptitude 
have  been  so  numerous  during  the  past  few  sea- 
sons that  it  seems  idle  to  recapitulate.  One  night 
proved  a  sufficiently  long  time  in  which  to  guess 
accurately  at  the  future  of  "Septimus",  "Drift- 
ing", "A  Skylark',  "Mr.  Buttles",  "Miss  Pat- 
sy", "The  Heights",  "The  Upstart",  "The  Scan- 

288 


'A  playwright  whose  stock 
has  soared  a  hundred  points 
in  a  single  evening" 


SOMETHING  ABOUT  FIRST  NIGHTS 

dal",  "The  Young  Turk",  "The  Foolish  Vir- 
gin", "The  Next  of  Kin",  'The  Fires  of  Fate", 
"Children  of  Destiny",  "Welcome  to  Our  City", 
and  "A  Little  Brother  of  the  Rich."  Two  or 
three  of  these  had  been  great  triumphs  in  Lon- 
don and  Paris,  half  a  dozen  were  by  famous 
Englishmen  and  Americans,  nearly  all  represent- 
ed extravagant  expenditure  on  the  part  of  ex- 
perienced managers,  but  neither  precedent  nor 
prominence  disturbed  the  "first  night"  jury  in 
New  York.  Augustus  Thomas'  "The  Ranger" 
was  voted  impossible  a  few  years  ago  at  Wal- 
lack's  with  as  little  hesitation  as  though  it  had 
been  written  by  John  Jones  instead  of  by  the 
author  of  "Arizona."  Frank  McKee  cancelled 
the  bookings  of  Hoyt's  "A  Dog  in  the  Manger" 
while  the  second  act  was  in  progress  at  Washing- 
ton, and  "The  Narrow  Path",  offered  for  a  run 
at  the  Hackett,  never  had  another  performance 
there — or  anywhere  else. 

With  such  possibilities  as  these  before  his 
eyes,  with  "Mrs.  Dane's  Defence"  at  one  end  of 
the  pendulum's  reach  and  "The  Evangelist"  at 

291 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

the  other,  do  you  wonder  that  the  playwright  is 
nervous  on  a  "first  night?" 

Unfortunately,  it  is  not  alone  the  be- 
havior of  the  "death  watch"  in  front  of  the  foot- 
lights that  gives  cause  for  anxiety.  Actors  and 
actresses  are  uncertain  creatures,  while  inanimate 
objects  seem  to  have  a  perfect  genius  for  going 
wrong  at  critical  times.  No  amount  of  rehears- 
ing can  be  depended  upon  to  prevent  a  moon 
wobbling  as  it  rises  at  an  initial  performance,  or 
to  make  the  crash  of  thunder  sound  unlike 
Bridget  taking  it  out  of  the  pots  and  pans  after 
dinner.  A  laugh  at  a  serious  moment  may  decide 
the  fate  of  a  play,  the  fate  of  a  play  may  make 
a  difference  of  several  hundred  thousand  dollars 
to  its  manager,  and,  this  being  true,  what  the 
manager  says  to  the  property  man  or  the  elec- 
trician after  a  faux  pas  like  either  of  those  men- 
tioned is  a  problem  you  can  solve  in  half  the 
time  you  once  devoted  to  discovering  the  age  of 
Ann. 

I  remember  vividly  the  primal  performance  at 
Hartford  of  Paul  Arthur's  melodrama,  "Lost 

292 


SOMETHING  ABOUT  FIRST  NIGHTS 

River."  One  of  the  mechanical  effects  in  this 
piece  was  a  bicycle  race,  during  which  the  con- 
testants pedaled  wildly  on  stationery  machines. 
The  effect  of  passing  landscape  was  given  by  a 
panorama  and  a  fence  that  moved  rapidly  in  the 
opposite  direction.  At  least,  they  were  supposed 
to  move  in  the  opposite  direction,  but  on  the  oc- 
casion of  which  I  speak,  they  didn't.  The  race 
became  one  between  the  bicyclists  and  the  sur- 
rounding country,  and  the  surrounding  country 
was  far  in  the  lead  when  an  irate  stage  manager 
rang  down  the  curtain.  This  accident  never 
happened  again,  but,  had  the  "first  night"  been 
in  New  York  instead  of  on  the  road,  once  would 
have  been  enough. 

The  late  A.  M.  Palmer  used  to  tell  a  story  il- 
lustrative of  the  fact  that  players,  under  stress 
of  "first  night"  excitement,  often  share  "the 
wickedness  of  inanimate  things."  Mr.  Palmer 
produced  "Trilby"  when  his  fortunes  were  at 
their  lowest  ebb,  and  upon  the  consequences  of 
the  performance  depended  his  immediate  fu- 
ture.     Paul   Potter's   dramatization   opened   in 

293 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

Boston,  and  gave  no  cause  for  worry  except  in 
the  matter  of  its  extreme  length.  Half  the  pop- 
ulation of  Boston  is  also  the  population  of  su- 
burban towns,  and  Sarah  Bernhardt,  George 
Cohan  and  a  Yale  lock  couldn't  keep  'em  from 
leaving  a  theater  at  train  time.  Consequently, 
when  eleven  o'clock  came  and  the  last  act  of 
'Trilby"  had  just  begun,  a  frown  settled  on  the 
classic  brow  of  the  ordinarily  imperturbable  Mr. 
Palmer. 

Virginia  Harned,  neither  as  experienced  nor 
as  clever  then  as  now,  was  playing  Trilby,  and 
she  felt  that  her  portrayal  had  been  more  or  less 
overshadowed  by  the  Svengali  of  Wilton  Lack- 
aye.  There  is  no  better  part  in  the  drama  than 
that  of  the  hypnotist,  while  the  opportunities  of 
the  name  role  are  limited.  Miss  Harned's  first 
chance  to  make  her  talent  conspicuous  came  with 
trie  death  of  the  model  in  the  last  act.  "Trilby 
began  to  die  at  11:10",  declared  Mr.  Palmer. 
'The  audience  had  already  commenced  looking 
at  its  watches,  and  a  photograph  of  my  thoughts 
would  have  developed  into  a  blue  print.     Miss 

294 


"Sarah  Bernhardt,  George  Cohan,  and 
a  Yale  lock  couldn't  keep  a  Boston 
audience  from  leaving  at  train  time" 


SOMETHING  ABOUT  FIRST  NIGHTS 

Harned,  on  the  contrary,  approached  the  scene 
with  joy,  too  wrought  up  to  take  into  consider- 
ation the  fact  that  the  people  in  front  had  begun 
to  be  more  interested  in  Newton  than  in  the  af- 
fairs of  Little  Billee.  Trilby  died  in  every  way 
known  to  medical  science  and  the  art  of  acting. 
She  died  of  heart  disease  and  consumption  and 
cerebral  spinal  meningitis.  She  died  a  la  Bern- 
hardt and  Marlowe  and  Clara  Morris.  She  died 
on  the  sofa  and  the  piano  stool  and  two  of  the 
rugs,  and,  just  when  I  thought  she  had  breathed 
her  last  against  the  door  R.  I.  E.,  she  found 
strength  to  take  a  few  steps  and  do  it  all  over 
again  in  the  center  of  the  stage.  Little  Billee 
was  waiting  in  the  wings,  but,  as  you  will  under- 
stand if  you  remember  the  play,  no  one  could 
come  on  until  Trilby  had  shuffled  off  her  mortal 
coil.  And  Trilby,  on  this  occasion,  simply  would 
not  shuffle.  It  was  nearly  1 1 130  when  she  finally 
gave  up  the  ghost  on  a  davenport  L.  C,  in  the 
presence  of  that  portion  of  the  audience  suf- 
ficiently Yankee  to  be  determined  upon  missing 
nothing  it  had  paid  to  see.     That  death  scene, 

297 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND   AFT 

abridged  and  expurgated,  afterward  became  a 
most  powerful  and  effective  bit  of  acting,  but  I 
confess  that  on  the  evening  in  question  the  qual- 
ity of  it  was  somewhat  obscured  by  the  quantity." 
Dramatic  authors,  likely  to  be  the  victims  of 
incidents  of  this  sort,  cannot  be  blamed  for  mani- 
festing marked  peculiarities  as  regards  "first 
nights."  When  my  best  and  least  successful 
play,  "The  Secret  Orchard',  was  given  its  pre- 
miere at  the  Lyric,  I  trotted  off  to  see  "A  Knight 
for  a  Day"  at  Wallack's.  James  Forbes  spends 
his  evening  behind  the  scenes.  After  the  open- 
ing of  "The  Commuters",  which  ran  six  months 
at  the  Criterion,  he  locked  himself  in  a  dressing 
room,  convinced  that  the  piece  was  a  dismal  fail- 
ure, and  refused  to  come  out,  even  when  im- 
plored to  do  so  in  order  that  the  leading  woman 
might  get  into  her  street  clothes.  Throughout 
the  performance  of  his  maiden  effort,  "Her  Hus- 
band's Wife",  "Al"  Thomas  walked  up  and 
down  the  block  in  front  of  the  Garrick.  Few 
men  are  able  even  to  assume  the  insouciance  of 
Harry  B.  Smith,  who,  at  the  primal  presentation 

298 


"Trilby  died  in  every  way  known  to 
medical  science  and  the  art  of  acting" 


SOMETHING  ABOUT  FIRST  NIGHTS 

of  his  "The  Bachellor  Belles",  smoked  a  cigar 
in  the  lobby  throughout  the  first  act  and  went 
home  in  the  middle  of  the  second. 

Until  constant  ridicule  broke  up  the  practice, 
most  authors  needed  little  urging  to  induce  them 
to  address  their  audiences  on  "first  nights."  As 
recently  as  the  fall  of  1909,  during  the  per- 
formance of  "On  the  Eve",  Martha  Morton,  its 
adapter,  made  a  speech  from  her  box  at  the  Hud- 
son. The  man  behind  the  pen  has  so  little 
chance  to  get  into  the  limelight — poor  fellow ! 
— that  to  speak  or  not  to  speak  will  always  be  a 
mooted  question  with  him.  Either  course  is 
likely  to  be  mistaken  by  the  critics,  who  put  down 
the  unfortunate  scribe  as  a  vainglorious  person 
if  he  appears  and  as  a  poseur  if  he  does  not. 
Personally,  I  feel  that  the  average  author  is 
much  more  favorably  represented  by  what  he 
writes  than  by  what  he  says,  and  that  neither  he 
nor  the  player  has  any  real  justification  for  mix- 
ing his  own  personality  with  those  of  the  pup- 
pets he  creates.  It  is  disillusioning,  after  having 
spent  som.?  time  in  witnessing  stirring  deeds  and 

3QI 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

hearing  high-sounding  words,  to  be  confronted 
with  a  little,  stoop-shouldered  man,  his  face 
white  in  the  glare  of  the  footlights  and  his 
hands  anxiously  seeking  a  refuge  in  his  ill-fit- 
ing  and  pocketless  dress  trousers,  and  to  realize 
that  this  grotesque  figure  is  that  of  the  inventor 
of  all  the  splendid  beings  you  have  seen. 

New  York  audiences  are  almost  the  only  ones 
in  the  country  that  ever  manifest  any  particular 
desire  to  gaze  upon  the  dramatist.  I  heard  a 
man  cry  "Author!"  once  at  a  "first  night"  in 
Chicago,  and  the  ushers  were  about  to  eject  him 
when  the  manager  explained  to  them  that  the 
enthusiast  was  acting  with  perfect  propriety. 

I  have  told  you,  in  another  part  of  this  book, 
of  the  oratorical  talent  of  Augustus  Thomas, 
who  is  the  most  impressive  of  before-the-curtain 
monologists.  He  makes  a  fine  appearance  on 
the  stage,  self-possessed  and  well-dressed,  and 
his  little  talks  invariably  are  brief  and  witty  and 
well-rounded.  So,  too,  are  those  of  Eugene  Pres- 
brey.  Paul  Armstrong's  undiplomatic  words 
have  been  known  to  prove  a  "last  straw"  on  the 

302 


The  author — as  you  imagine  him, 
and  as  he  proves  to  be" 


SOMETHING  ABOUT  FIRST  NIGHTS 

graves  of  his  failures,  and  Edith  Wharton  and 
Charlotte  Thompson,  clever  women  both  but  not 
prepossessing,  almost  turned  into  burlesque  the 
"first  night"  of  "The  Awakening  of  Helena 
Richie."  Charles  Klein  is  not  big  enough  phys- 
ically to  fill  the  eye,  and  David  Belasco,  with  his 
trick  of  being  pushed  violently  to  the  front  and 
of  fingering  his  forelock,  creates  an  impression 
of  insincerity  and  preparedness.  William  Gil- 
lette has  all  an  actor's  skill  in  appealing  to  an  au- 
dience, and,  I  am  told,  saved  the  day — or,  rath- 
er, the  night — for  his  "Sherlock  Holmes"  in 
London.  George  Ade  and  Sydney  Rosenfeld 
are  amusing  on  "the  apron",  but  other  brilliant 
men,  like  Edwin  Milton  Royle  and  Richard 
Harding  Davis,  are  not  at  their  best  when 
obliged  to  say  "thank  you."  Mr.  Davis  figured 
in  a  neat  bit  of  good  humor  in  New  Haven, 
where,  after  the  third  act  of  Mr.  Thomas'  adap- 
tation of  his  "Soldiers  of  Fortune",  Mr.  Thom- 
as assumed  his  identity  and  he  pretended  to  be 
Mr.  Thomas. 

English  playwrights  are  much  more  at  ease 

305 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

than  are  American.  Henry  Arthur  Jones,  A.  W. 
Pinero,  Henry  V.  Esmond,  and  even  young  Hu- 
bert Henry  Davies  look  well  and  talk  well  when 
they  have  occasion  to  "speak  out  in  meeting." 
George  Bernard  Shaw's  witticism  when  some- 
body in  the  gallery  hissed  while  he  was  making 
a  curtain  speech  has  become  famous.  The  Irish 
Voltaire  had  just  referred  to  the  play  of  the 
evening,  the  third  act  of  which  had  been  con- 
cluded, when  this  sound  of  disapprobation  cleft 
the  circumambient  atmosphere.  "Ah !"  said  Mr. 
Shaw  to  the  disturber,  "you  and  I  are  quite 
agreed,  but  we  seem  in  the  minority." 

I  cannot  pass  by  the  subject  of  "first  night" 
addresses  without  relating  to  what  extent  Wash- 
ington is  indebted  to  me  for  a  chatty  five  minutes 
with  Mr.  Thomas  on  the  occasion  of  the  produc- 
tion of  "The  Hoosier  Doctor."  At  that  time,  I 
was  dramatic  critic  of  The  Washington  Post. 
I  was  riding  horseback,  and,  at  five  in  the  after- 
noon, found  myself  six  or  eight  miles  from  town, 
and  in  the  presence  of  Mr.  Thomas.  He  had 
been  bicycling  and  his  machine  had  broken  down. 

306 


SOMETHING  ABOUT  FIRST  NIGHTS 

"Lend  me  your  horse,  like  a  good  fellow",  he 
begged,  when  we  came  together.  "I  want  to  get 
back  for  the  performance  of  'The  Hoosier  Doc- 
tor. 

"Can't!"  I  replied.  "I've  got  to  write  a  re- 
view of  that  same  play." 

"Well",  returned  the  author,  smiling  in  the 
midst  of  his  perplexity,  "my  claim  is  the  strong- 
er. 'The  Hoosier  Doctor'  can  be  performed 
whether  your  criticism  is  written  or  not,  but  your 
criticism  cannot  be  written  unless  'The  Hoosier 
Doctor'  is  performed." 

In  the  end,  the  public  was  obliged  to  forego 
neither  play  nor  review,  since  Mr.  Thomas  gal- 
loped to  the  city  on  my  horse  and  I  was  picked 
up  soon  after  by  a  farmer  in  a  wagon. 

A  list  of  the  "first  nights"  that  have  gone 
down  into  histrionic  history  would  vie  in  length 
with  a  record  of  the  bits  of  the  true  cross  on 
view  in  Europe.  Primarily,  one  would  be 
obliged  to  record  premieres  at  which  riots  have 
occurred,  and  since,  at  one  time  a  century  ago, 
it  was  easier  to  hold  an  Irish  election  without 

307 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND   AFT 

a  fight  than  to  give  an  initial  dramatic  per- 
formance without  one,  this  would  take  much 
space  and  research.  The  initial  representations  of 
great  works,  such  as  those  of  Shakespeare  and 
Moliere,  and  the  professional  debuts  of  celebrat- 
ed actors,  like  Thomas  Betterton  and  Peg  Wof- 
fington,  would  baffle  the  descriptive  powers  of 
so  humble  a  chronicler  as  myself.  Assuredly, 
a  whole  book  might  be  written  about  the  re- 
ception originally  accorded  "Hamlet,"  and  I 
am  certain  that  we  should  all  like  to  know  pre- 
cisely what  happened  at  the  Boston  Theater 
on  the  evening  of  Monday,  September  10, 
1849,  when  Edwin  Booth  made  his  first  bow 
to  the  public.  Nearly  everyone  remembers  the 
interesting  story  of  the  "first  night"  of  "A 
Parisian  Romance"  at  the  Union  Square  Thea- 
ter on  January  10,  1883,  when  an  obscure 
young  man  named  Richard  Mansfield  made  the 
minor  role  of  Baron  Chevrial  the  biggest  part 
in  the  play  and  himself  the  most-talked-of  actor 
in  America. 

My  own   most  notable   "first  night"  was  at 

308 


SOMETHING  ABOUT  FIRST  NIGHTS 

Rome,  some  time  in  May,  1890,  when,  as  a 
youngster,  I  heard  "Cavalleria  Rusticana"  sung 
for  the  first  time  on  any  stage.  My  recollec- 
tion of  the  event  is  not  vivid,  but  I  recall  that 
the  composer,  Pietro  Mascagni,  wept,  and  that 
the  audience  joined  him,  having  already  done 
every  other  emotional  thing  you  could  call  to 
mind.  This  sort  of  enthusiasm  is  not  excep- 
tional among  the  Latins,  and  "first  nights"  in 
Madrid,  Naples,  Brussells  and  Paris  always 
are  likely  to  be  extremely  spectacular.  Berlin, 
Vienna  and  Prague  are  less  excitable,  though  I 
witnessed  rather  a  remarkable  demonstration  at 
a  performance  of  an  opera  called  "Die  Hexe" 
in  the  metropolis  last  mentioned,  and  saw  a 
crowd  draw  home  Charlotte  Wolter's  carriage 
one  evening  in  Vienna. 

The  stalls  in  a  London  playhouse  hold  men 
and  women  as  reserved  and  conservative  as  any 
in  the  world,  but  the  pit,  which  signifies  ap- 
proval by  the  conventional  applause,  has  made 
its  disapprobation  dreaded  at  premieres.  The 
"boo!"  of  the  Cockney  who  has  paid  "two  and 

309 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

six"  for  his  place  and  is  resolved  upon  getting 
his  money's  worth  or  knowing  the  reason  why 
is  a  potent  damper.  Disorder  in  the  pit  may  not 
even  have  been  caused  by  the  poorness  of  a 
production;  persistent  enthusiasm  on  the  part 
of  a  claque  or  the  appearance  of  a  foreign  star 
often  provoke  it.  I  shall  never  forget  how 
near  several  patriotic  Americans,  myself 
among  them,  were  to  provoking  a  riot  against 
Nat  Goodwin  at  the  opening  of  "The  Cowboy 
and  the  Lady"  in  the  Duke  of  York's  Theater. 
New  York,  which  never  commits  itself  with 
a  "Boo!"  or  a  "Bis!",  which  never  hisses  and 
somewhat  rarely  applauds,  provides  the  most 
terrible  ordeal  in  the  world  for  author,  actor 
and  manager.  The  "first  nighter"  is  as  much 
a  type  here  as  in  London.  A  small  per  cent- 
age  of  him  are  the  tired  and  idle  rich,  the  ma- 
jority being  made  up  of  wine  agents,  book- 
makers, professional  "dead-heads",  ladies  of 
uneasy  virtue,  and  dramatic  critics.  Of  an 
opening  audience  at  Weber  &  Fields'  it  was 
said  once  that  "there  wasn't  a  woman  in  the 

310 


SOMETHING  ABOUT  FIRST  NIGHTS 

house  who  hadn't  changed  her  hair   and  her 
husband  within  the  year." 

These  boulevardiers  have  seen  everything 
produced  in  town  during  a  decade,  or  perhaps 
two  decades,  and  are  absolutely  pleasure-proof. 
Their  attitude  expresses  the  defiance:  "I  dare 
you  to  satisfy  me."  One  of  their  number, 
asked  as  to  the  fate  of  a  comedy,  is  reported 
to  have  replied :  "I'm  afraid  it's  a  success."  If 
it  were  only  that  these  people  knew  everything, 
and  were  hard  to  please,  nobody  would  have 
the  right  to  object  to  them.  The  trouble  is  that 
they  are  pleased  with  the  wrong  fare.  Witty 
lines  and  subtle  construction,  delicate  sentiment 
and  simple  sincerity,  except  for  their  appeal  to 
the  reviewers,  must  wait  for  recognition  until 
the  second  night.  Legs  and  lingerie,  double 
entendre  and  bald  suggestion,  the  wit  of  the 
slap  stick  and  the  melody  of  the  street  piano 
are  the  chosen  diet  of  this  "death  watch", 
which  "sits  in  solemn  silence",  with  impassive 
faces  and  row  after  row  of  masculine  shirt 
bosoms  rearing  themselves  in  the  darkness  like 

3ii 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

tombstones  in  a  pauper  graveyard. 

How  to  avoid  this  chilling  influence  is  a  puz- 
zle that  has  agitated  every  producer  on  Broad- 
way. Your  New  York  manager  has  a  list  of 
the  seats  regularly  occupied  by  the  critics,  and 
these  go  out  first.  Then  the  wine  agents  and 
book-makers  aforesaid  buy  the  tickets  laid  aside 
for  them.  Next  the  general  public  has  an  op- 
portunity, of  which  it  is  slow  to  take  advantage, 
and  then  whatever  has  been  left  is  given  away. 
Nobody  ever  saw  a  small  "first  night"  audi- 
ence in  Manhattan,  nor  one  in  which  there 
were  not  at  least  three  hundred  enthusiastic  per- 
sons. This  enthusiasm  deceives  no  one — least 
of  all  the  newspaper  men  for  whom  is  it  in- 
tended— and  it  rebounds  like  a  ball  against  the 
hardness  of  the  general  imperturbability. 
Many  a  time,  while  the  gallant  three  hundred 
were  splitting  their  gloves  and  callousing  their 
hands,  I  have  seen  traveling  from  critic  to  critic 
that  glance  of  understanding  and  disapproval 
which  has  sealed  the  fate  of  so  many  thousand 
plays. 

312 


SOMETHING  ABOUT  FIRST  NIGHTS 

The  New  York  critics  are  about  a  score  in 
number,  and,  during  the  past  few  years,  there 
have  been  many  changes  in  the  corps.  Its  dean, 
William  Winter,  resigned  from  The  Tribune, 
where  his  post  is  filled  by  Arthur  Warren.  Alan 
Dale,  of  The  American,  continues  to  be  the 
most  widely  known  of  our  writers  on  theatrical 
topics,  and  we  still  have  with  us,  as  stand-bys, 
Adolph  Klauber,  of  The  Times;  Louis  De  Foe, 
of  The  World;  Rennold  Wolf,  of  The  Tele- 
graph; Acton  Davies,  of  The  Evening  Sun; 
Charles  Darnton,  of  The  Evening  World; 
Rankin  Towse,  of  The  Post,  and  Robert  Gil- 
bert Welsh,  of  The  Evening  Telegram.  The 
Press  has  been  carrying  on  a  lively  theatrical 
war,  and,  perhaps  for  that  reason,  its  reviews 
manifest  not  only  ignorance  but  the  most  bump- 
tious disregard  of  general  and  expert  opinion. 
Arthur  Brisbane  having  declared  against 
"abuse",  The  Evening  Journal  finds  good  in 
everything;  The  Sun  has  had  no  regular  critic 
since  it  lost  Walter  Prichard  Eaton,  and  The 
Herald  boasts  that  it  prints  only  "reports"  of 

313 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE  AND  AFT 

performances.  "First  nights"  are  arranged, 
when  that  is  possible,  on  different  evenings,  so 
that  all  the  critics  may  be  present  at  each,  but, 
when  there  is  a  conflict,  every  man  picks  out 
the  opening  he  considers  most  important  and 
either  lets  the  others  go  until  later  in  the  week 
or  sends  his  assistant. 

There  are  thirty  or  forty  reviewers  who  rep- 
resent magazines  and  periodicals,  but,  for  the 
most  part,  these  are  de  classe.  They  flock  alone 
in  the  lobbies  during  intermissions,  when  the 
men  from  the  daily  newspapers  congregate  in 
groups  to  exchange  a  word  or  two  about  the 
play  and  to  discuss  other  matters  of  common 
interest.  These  foyer  gatherings  pronounce  a 
verdict  that,  as  we  have  seen,  is  seldom— per- 
haps too  seldom — overruled.  Many  a  man- 
ager has  leaned  against  his  box  office  after  the 
third  act  of  a  new  piece,  eavesdropping  to  learn 
what  intelligence,  experience,  keen  judgment 
and  careful  reading  and  rehearsing  have  not 
told  him. 

For  there  are  two  "anxious  seats"  on  a  "first 

314 


SOMETHING  ABOUT  FIRST  NIGHTS 

night"  in  New  York:     One  in  the  author's  box 
and  one  in  the  manager's. 


315 


IN  VAUDEVILLE 


Being  inside  information  regarding  a  kind  of  entertain- 
ment at  which  one  requires  intelligence  no  more  than  the 
kitchen    range. 


VARIETY  is  the  spice  of  life.  So  is 
vaudeville.  If  you  doubt  it,  consider 
Gertrude  Hoffmann,  Valeska  Suratt, 
Eva  Tanguay,  and  other  beauties  unadorned  of 
"the  two  a  day." 

Time  was  when  "continuous  performances" 
offered  the  best  means  of  convincing  Aunt  Jane 
that  there  were  harmless  theatrical  entertain- 
ments besides  "The  Old  Homestead."  Variety, 
of  course,  had  been  a  word  to  excite  horror.  But 
vaudeville — well,  vaudeville  was  to  variety  what 
"darn"  is  to  "damn!" 

And,  as  the  advertisements  have  it,  there  was 
a  reason.  B.  F.  Keith,  when  he  took,  the  curse 
off  a  type  of  amusement  generally  associated 
with  dance  halls,  "stag"  houses,  minstrel  shows 
and  "The  Black  Crook",  had  his  eye  on  Aunt 

316 


IN  VAUDEVILLE 

Jane.  Vaudeville,  born  in  France  during  the 
Fifteenth  Century,  and  named  after  Les  Vaux 
de  Vire,  the  home  of  its  father,  Oliver  Basselin, 
stood  for  something  just  a  little  more  ribald  than 
variety.  Mr.  Keith  resolved  to  stand  for  noth- 
ing of  the  kind.  Beginning  in  Boston,  he  soon 
invaded  Philadelphia  and  New  York  with  shows 
so  religiously  expurgated  that  they  couldn't  have 
drawn  the  slightest  protest  from  a  Presbyterian 
Synod. 

Oaths  might  not  be  spoken  at  Keith's.  Be- 
tighted  damsels  were  banned  and  barred  — for- 
bidden fair.  Short  skirts  were  permitted  under 
certain  rigorous  restrictions.  One  of  the  restric- 
tions was  that  ladies  who  wore  short  skirts  must 
not  wear  silk  stockings.  I  remember  wondering 
wherein  the  silk  worm  was  more  immoral  than 
the  cotton-gin,  and  concluding  that,  despite  the 
phrase  "ugly  as  sin",  Mr.  Keith  had  defined 
sin  as  anything  attractive. 

Virtue  and  vaudeville  were  synonymous  for 
something  over  a  decade.  I  don't  know  precise- 
ly when  people  stopped  going  to  hear  the  new 

317 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

ditties,  and  began  going  to  see  the  nudities. 
"Living  pictures"  began  it.  "Living  pictures", 
you  may  recollect,  were  ladies  in  pink  union 
suits.  They  were  supposed  to  be  popular  be- 
cause of  artistic  draping  and  grouping,  but  the 
minimum  of  drapery  always  brought  about  the 
maximum  of  popularity.  It  was  but  a  step  from 
union  suits  to  non-union  suits;  from  fleshings  to 
whitewash  and  bronze  varnish.  In  1906  Lon- 
don went  quite  mad  over  a  Venus  whose  entire 
wardrobe  was  applied  with  a  paintbrush.  Event- 
ually Venus  rose  from  the  sea  in  America,  but, 
by  the  date  of  her  arrival,  our  own  performers 
had  so  far  outstripped  her  that  she  didn't  cre- 
ate even  a  mild  sensation. 

Koster  &  Bials'  had  paved  the  way  with 
Charmion,  who  disrobed  while  seated  upon  a 
flying  trapeze.  Oscar  Hammerstein  had  done 
some  astonishing  things  at  his  Victoria  Theater. 
Salome,  driven  out  of  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
House,  had  taken  refuge  in  vaudeville,  garbed 
— if  one  may  use  the  word  in  connection  with  a 
costume  somewhat  less  extensive  than  a  porus 

3i8 


"Venus  rose  from  the  sea" 
{With  apologies  to  Botticelli) 


IN  VAUDEVILLE 

plaster — in  a  fashion  that  made  it  easy  to  under- 
stand why  John  the  Baptist  lost  his  head.  Maud 
Allen,  in  England,  and  Ruth  St.  Denis,  in  the 
United  States,  were  reconciling  the  authorities  to 
the  nude  in  art,  and  making  possible  any  sort 
of  display  that  had  dancing  or  diving  as  an  ex- 
cuse. Annette  Kellarman,  attired  in  a  bathing 
suit  that  clung  to  her  like  a  poor  relation,  wak- 
ened wonderful  interest  in  aquatic  sports,  while 
Lala  Selbini  showed  herself  to  be  of  the  opin- 
ion that  clothing  was  inconsistent  with  good 
juggling,  and  a  female  person  whose  name  es- 
capes me  demonstrated  that  bare  legs  were  a 
great  help  in  playing  the  violin. 

The  Princess  Rajah,  an  "Oriental"  dancer 
who  had  attracted  attention  at  Huber's  Mu- 
seum, journeyed  to  Broadway,  where  an  excuse 
for  her  undress,  and  her  wrigglings,  was  found 
in  the  faint  pretence  that  she  impersonated  Cle- 
opatra. "Placing  a  snake  in  her  bosom",  read 
a  note  on  the  program,  "she  danced  before  a 
statue  of  Antony  until  it  bit  her."  Remarkable 
as  this  behavior  may  seem  on  the  part  of  a  Ro- 

321 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

man  General,  it  was  not  wholly  incomprehensi- 
ble to  theatre-goers  who  witnessed  the  antics  of 
Cleopatra.  According  to  Rajah,  the  Queen  of 
Egypt  demonstrated  her  sorrow  chiefly  by  seiz- 
ing a  kitchen  chair  and  whirling  round  and 
round  with  it  in  her  teeth. 

Of  the  degeneration  of  vaudeville  the  most 
regrettable  feature  is  that  it  has  brought  about 
no  change  in  the  character  of  vaudeville  audi- 
ences. Perhaps  I  should  say  in  their  personnel, 
since  their  character  must  have  been  affected  by 
all  this  tawdry  bawdry  and  sensationalism.  True, 
one  or  two  of  the  down-town  theaters  have  be- 
come noted  for  the  "sporty"  aspect  of  their  au- 
diences, and,  necessarily,  all  these  houses  have 
lost  the  patronage  of  women  shoppers,  country 
people  and  stay-at-homes  that  once  were  so  as- 
siduously courted.  Mostly,  however,  the  crowds 
that  flock  to  such  performances  are  made  up  of 
young  girls,  shop  assistants,  and  respectable  mid- 
dle-class folk  who  look  and  listen  unblushingly 
at  sights  and  to  sentences  they  would  not  toler- 
ate in  their  own  circles.     It  does  not  seem  pos- 

322 


"Danced  before  a  statue  of 
Antony  until  it  bit  her" 


IN  VAUDEVILLE 

sible  that  this  sort  of  thing  can  be  without  its 
influence  upon  their  lives. 

When  vaudeville  was  written  down  as 
"spice",  however,  I  had  in  mind  not  so  much 
its  offences  against  propriety  as  its  appeal  to 
palates  that  would  reject  solid  food.  Vaudeville 
addresses  itself  to  amusement  seekers  incapable 
of  giving,  or  unwilling  to  give,  concentrated  and 
continuous  attention.  This  kind  of  entertain- 
ment calls  for  orderliness  of  mind  no  more  than 
does  the  newspaper  headline.  There  is  no  se- 
quence of  thought  to  be  preserved,  no  logical 
procession  of  ideas  to  be  kept  in  line;  the  im- 
pression of  the  moment  is  sufficient  and  supreme. 
Naturally,  such  a  performance  is  attractive  to 
undisciplined  brains,  to  empty  brains,  and  to 
lazy  brains.  You  need  bring  to  a  vaudeville 
theater  nothing  but  the  price  of  admission.     . 

It   is   this  same  asking  little  that  has 
made  the  popularity  of  moving  pictures. 

Vaudeville  has  about  the  same  relation  to  the 
"theatrical  business"  that  insurance  bears  to  oth- 
er business.     When  a  business  man  has  failed 

325 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

at  everything  else  he  tries  selling  insurance; 
when  a  prominent  actor  has  "closed"  twice  or 
three  times  in  rapid  succession  he  "goes  into 
vaudeville."  The  better  element  is  infused  with- 
out fusing.  The  regulars  are  inclined  to  look 
askance  at  these  volunteers,  resenting  the  fact 
that  the  latter  use  as  a  make-shift  what  they 
have  adopted  as  a  profession,  and  insisting, 
often  not  without  justice,  that,  "while  big  names 
may  draw  the  crowds,  it  is  our  work  that  holds 
'em."  I'm  afraid  the  attitude  of  many  recruits 
does  not  tend  to  lessen  this  friction.  "Is  there 
a  'star  dressing  room?'  "  a  well-known  prima 
donna  inquired  loftily  as  she  entered  the  thea- 
ter where  she  was  to  make  her  debut  in  "the  two 
a  day." 

The  juggler  to  whom  the  question  was  put, 
replied:     "Yes     ...     for  falling  stars!" 

However,  many  of  these  "falling  stars"  per- 
form the  strange  astronomical  feat  of  climbing 
back  into  the  heavens.  A  very  large  number  of 
the  men  and  women  at  present  heading  their 
own  companies  have  descended  into  vaudeville, 

326 


"You  need  bring  to  a  vaudeville 
theatre  nothing  but  the  price 
of  admission 


IN  VAUDEVILLE 

as  Antaeus  occasionally  descended  to  earth,  to 
renew  their  strength.  One  attractive  play  and 
Mr.  V.  Headliner  becomes  Mr.  Broadway  Star. 
Robert  Hilliard  had  been  in  the  varieties  for 
years  when  he  was  restored  to  "the  legitimate" 
by  Porter  Emerson  Browne's  "A  Fool  There 
Was."  Sarah  Bernhardt,  as  everybody  knows, 
appeared  at  a  music  hall  in  London  en  route  to 
fill  her  latest  engagement  in  America.  Here  we 
have  no  "Divine  Sarah",  but  vaudeville  has 
sung  its  siren-song  successfully  to  Mrs.  Patrick 
Campbell,  Lily  Langtry,  Charles  Hawtrey,  Hen- 
rietta Crosman,  Henry  Miller,  Arnold  Daly, 
Lillian  Russell,  and  numberless  other  mimes  of 
great  reputation.  This  song  is  most  aggravat- 
ing to  producers  of  musical  comedy,  whose  per- 
formers, when  the  librettist  insists  upon  the  pres- 
ervation of  some  of  his  text  or  when  their  names 
do  not  appear  in  sufficiently  large  type  on  the 
program,  always  are  ready  to  "go  into  vaude- 
ville." 

A  list  of  people  at  present  offering  one-act 
plays  discloses  no  fewer  than  twenty  actors  and 

329 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

actresses  of  recognized  ability.  There  is  Marietta 
Oily,  who  did  capital  work  in  "The  Whirlwind" 
at  Daly's,  and  Nat  C.  Goodwin,  who,  truth  to 
tell,  draws  a  big  salary  less  because  of  his  his- 
trionic than  because  of  his  matrimonial  versa- 
tility. Frank  Keenan,  Edward  Abies,  and  Mac- 
lyn  Arbuckle,  who  has  made  a  hit  in  Robert 
Davis'  clever  comedietta,  "The  Welcher",  have 
been  stars  within  the  twelvemonth  and  are  now 
in  vaudeville,  as  are  also  Amelia  Bingham,  W. 
H.  Thompson,  Charles  Richman,  William 
Courtleigh,  George  Beban,  Lionel  Barrymore, 
McKee  Rankin,  Edwin  Arden,  Sam  Chip  and 
Mary  Marble.  Vaudeville  produces  its  own 
luminaries,  too — Cissie  Loftus,  for  example,  and 
Elsie  Janis,  who  "did  a  specialty"  for  years  be- 
fore she  was  taken  up  by  Charles  Dillingham. 

Many  of  the  cleverest  entertainers  in  the 
world  are  identified  exclusively  with  the  varie- 
ties. There  are  Yvette  Guilbert,  Albert  Cheva- 
lier, Harry  Lauder,  and  Alice  Lloyd,  each  of 
whom  has  a  following  as  large  and  apprecia- 
tive as  that  of  Maude  Adams  or  John  Drew. 

330 


IN  VAUDEVILLE 

Other  players,  less  widely  known,  go  round  the 
circuits  year  after  year,  making  themselves  solid 
with  a  class  of  theater-goers  that  has  come  to 
depend  upon  them  for  half  an  hour  of  amuse- 
ment. Cressy  and  Dayne  are  among  these,  as 
are  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Perkins  D.  Fisher,  Clayton 
White,  Carrie  de  Mar,  Irene  Franklin  and  Tom 
Nawn.  George  Cohan's  career  began  in  vaude- 
ville, and  no  one  who  has  owed  twenty  minutes 
of  laughter  to  his  ability  as  a  racounteur  will 
ever  forget  the  late  Ezra  Kendal.  Such  men  as 
Jesse  Lasky  and  Joseph  Hart,  recognizing  the 
opportunities  of  "the  two  a  day",  have  made 
elaborate  productions  of  what  really  are  little 
musical  comedies,  and  have  presented  them  as 
part  of  regular  variety  bills.  Mr.  Lasky's  "The 
Love  Waltz"  and  "At  the  Country  Club"  were 
as  pretentiously  staged  as  any  single  act  in  a 
comic  opera. 

It  is  not  my  desire  or  disposition  to  deny  the 
cleverness  of  these  people  or  the  attractiveness 
of  their  "turns."  I  doubt  that  today  the  most 
wearied  theater-goer  could  find  a  vaudeville  bill 

33i 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE  AND  AFT 

without  one  or  two  numbers  that  would  enter- 
tain him.     The  point  is  that  this  amusement- 
seeker  would  be  obliged  to  take  a  vast  quantity 
of  chaff  with  his  wheat,  to  review  an  endless  pro- 
cession  of   clog   dancers,    trick   bicyclists,   wire 
walkers,  trained  animals,  tramp  comedians,  acro- 
bats and  equilibrists  before  coming  to  that  part 
of  the  program  which  might  interest  him.   Most 
of  these  fillers-in  are  notable  chiefly  for  the  awe- 
inspiring  quality  of  their  English,  and  for  their 
persistence  in  performing  dangerous  feats  that, 
when  performed,  add  nothing  to  the  sum  total 
of  human  happiness,  knowledge  or  pleasure.     I 
haven't    been    able    to    discover    why    anybody 
should  want  to  see  a  lion  stand  on  its  head,  or  a 
gentleman  tie  his  legs  in  a  true  lovers'  knot,  and 
I  shall  never  understand  the  public  penchant  for 
hearing  "The  Anvil  Chorus"  played  on  tin  cans, 
since  it  can  be  played  so  much  better  on  a  piano. 
One  always  thinks  of  the  wit  who,  being  in- 
formed enthusiastically  that  some  stunt  or  other 
was  "very  difficult",  replied:     "I  wish  it  were 
impossible." 

332 


IN  VAUDEVILLE 

The  worst  of  the  matter  is  that,  there  being 
comparatively  few  performers  of  merit,  the  same 
people,  doing  the  same  things,  return  again  and 
again  to  the  same  theaters.  I  remember  having 
seen  one  team  of  comedy  acrobats,  Rice  and  Pre- 
vost,  seven  times  in  the  space  of  a  single  sea- 
son, at  the  end  of  which  period  I  had  ceased  to 
laugh  uproariously  when  one  of  the  two  humor- 
ists fell  from  a  table  and  struck  his  face  violent- 
ly upon  the  floor.  Half  the  "turns"  at  the  Vic- 
toria this  Saturday  may  be  at  the  Colonial  next 
Monday,  so  that,  unless  you  wish  your  entertain- 
ment, like  your  wine,  well-aged,  you  would  do 
well  to  make  your  vaudeville  excursions  to  one 
theater.  It  is  too  much  to  expect  the  average 
variety  performer  to  change  his  act  more  often 
than  once  in  a  decade,  and  then  he  is  likely  to 
retain  everything  that  has  been  especially  well 
received.  Of  course,  you  remember  George 
Ade's  friends,  Zoroaster  and  Zendavesta,  who, 
at  the  end  of  five  years,  substituted  green  whisk- 
ers for  red,  and  advertised:  "Everything 
New." 

333 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

The  managers  certainly  are  doing  their  best 
to  be  rid  of  Zoroasters  and  Zendavestas.  Their 
agents  search  every  capital  of  Europe  for  new 
talent,  and  no  one  makes  a  hit  in  the  music  halls 
of  London  or  Paris  or  Berlin  without  immedi- 
ately receiving  an  offer  to  come  to  America.  Nor 
is  there  any  limit  to  the  figures  mentioned  in 
such  an  offer.  The  salaries  paid,  both  for  im- 
ported and  for  native  talent,  were  supposed  to 
have  reached  their  utmost  height  in  the  palmy 
days  of  Keith  and  Proctor,  but  they  have 
doubled  since  Oscar  Hammerstein  announced  on 
his  billboards  that  he  was  paying  $1,000  a  week 
to  Marie  Dressier.  There  are  half  a  dozen 
performers  now  who  get  $2,000,  and  one  or 
two  who  are  reputed  to  receive  even  more.  Any 
number  of  headliners  earn  five  hundred  dollars, 
or  seven  hundred  and  fifty  dollars,  which,  you 
must  remember,  probably  is  in  excess  of  the 
amount  tucked  into  the  yellow  envelopes  of  Otis 
Skinner  or  Ethel  Barrymore. 

There  is  one  important  difference  between  the 
salaries  paid  in  vaudeville  and  those  paid  "legit- 

334 


"Their  agents  search  every 
capital  of  Europe" 


IN  VAUDEVILLE 

imate"  players.  The  former  cannot  consider 
their  earnings  as  "net",  since  they  are  obliged 
frequently  to  engage  small  companies,  some- 
times numbering  twelve  or  sixteen  people,  whose 
wages  come  out  of  the  sum  given  their  princi- 
pal. Variety  performers  defray  their  own  trav- 
elling expenses,  too,  and  those  of  their  assist- 
ants, together  with  such  other  expenses  as 
agents'  fees,  advertising  bills,  and  similar  inci- 
dentals. Formerly  a  great  deal  of  time  was  lost 
in  long  jumps,  and  between  engagements,  but 
managerial  combinations  have  considerably  les- 
sened this  waste.  The  successful  vaudevillian 
rarely  experiences  a  break  in  his  bookings  now- 
a-days,  and,  especially  if  his  act  does  not  depend 
upon  acoustics,  he  fills  out  his  season  with  roof 
gardens,  summer  parks,  and  perhaps  a  circus. 

Variety  people  make  up  an  individual  nation 
in  the  theatrical  world.  They  have  their  own 
language,  their  own  view-point,  their  own  ambi- 
tions and  grievances,  besides  their  own  clubs, 
hotels  and  newspapers.  The  most  important  of 
these  societies  are  The  Vaudeville  Comedy  Club, 

337 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

which  has  rooms  in  Forty-sixth  Street  and  gives 
an  annual  benefit,  and  The  White  Rats,  an  ag- 
gressive organization  that  has  conducted  spunky 
fights  against  greedy  agents  and  the  black- 
list of  the  United  Booking  Offices.  The 
White  Rats  publish  a  weekly  periodical,  yclept 
The  Player,  but  the  real  trade  paper  of  the  pro- 
fession is  issued  in  a  green  cover  and  called  Va- 
riety. 

The  vaudeville  performer — he  insists  upon  al- 
luding to  himself  as  "the  artist" — actually  ap- 
pears on  the  stage  about  forty  minutes  a  day. 
His  labor,  however,  is  not  quite  so  light  as  these 
figures  make  it  seem.  He  must  put  on  and  take 
off  his  makeup  afternoon  and  evening,  and  he 
must  be  in  the  theater  during  a  good  deal  of  the 
time  that  he  is  not  engaged.  Monday  morning 
he  rehearses  with  the  orchestra,  and  is  assigned 
a  number  on  the  program  of  the  week — vaude- 
villians,  like  convicts  and  hotel  guests,  being 
identified  by  numbers.  His  place  in  the  bill  de- 
pends upon  the  length  of  his  "turn",  the  stage 
room  required  for  it,  and  its  nature.     Acts  that 

338 


IN  VAUDEVILLE 

can  be  given  in  front  of  a  drop  "in  one"  must 
be  sandwiched  between  "full  stage"  acts,  so  that 
scenes  may  be  set  for  the  latter  without  inter- 
rupting the  performance,  and  the  experienced 
stage  manager  arranges  his  material  with  a  keen 
eye  to  variety. 

As  important  as  the  star  dressing  room  to  a 
leading  woman,  as  vital  as  full-faced  type  to  a 
star  is  his  place  on  the  bill  to  a  vaudevillian.  By 
their  numbers  ye  shall  know  them.  Headliners 
are  given  a  position  midway  in  the  entertain- 
ment, and  insist  upon  it  as  "legitimate"  actors 
upon  the  center  of  the  stage.  Minor  acts  open 
or  close  a  show,  and  the  prejudice  against  being 
assigned  to  either  end  is  so  great  that  many 
stage  managers  must  sympathize  with  the  Irish- 
man who,  being  informed  that  a  large  per  cent- 
age  of  the  victims  of  railway  accidents  are  pas- 
sengers in  the  last  car  of  the  train,  inquired: 
'Then,  bedad,  why  don't  they  leave  off  the  last 
car  r 

A  layman  may  ask  reasonably  how  the  man- 
agers of  variety  houses  are  able  to  pay  double 

339 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE  AND  AFT 

the  salaries  that  prevail  in  other  theaters,  while 
they  exact  only  half  the  price  of  admission.  The 
explanation  is  simple.     In  the  first  place,  as  has 
been  explained,  they  pay  nothing  but  salaries— 
neither  railway  fares  nor  the  cost  of  costumes 
and  paraphernalia.     They  are  not  compelled  to 
make  big  and  expensive  productions,  to  remu- 
nerate   authors,    or,    most    important    of    all, 
to  split  returns  with  the  managers  of  theaters 
in     which     their     shows     are     given.       Hen- 
ry B.  Harris,  or  Frederic  Thompson,  presenting 
"The  Country  Boy"  or  "The  Spendthrift"  at 
the  Chestnut  Street  Opera  House,  Philadelphia, 
or  the  National  Theater,  Washington,  must  di- 
vide equally,  or  nearly  equally,  with  the  lessees 
of  those  places  of  amusement.     The  vaudeville 
impressario  assembles  his  own  show  in  his  own 
theater,  and  takes  the  entire  amount  paid  in  at 
the  box  office.     Even  in  these  times,  an  exceed- 
ingly good  bill  can  be  put  together  for  $3,000, 
and,  if  the  running  expenses  of  the  theatre  are 
$2,000,  there  remains  a  wide  margin  of  profit. 
The  United  Booking  Offices,  which  do  busi- 

340 


IN  VAUDEVILLE 

ness  at  1495  Broadway,  is  as  complete  a  trust  as 
any  in  America.  The  "offices"  are  maintained 
by  a  combination  that  includes  all  the  powerful 
vaudeville  managers,  and  all  the  big  vaudeville 
circuits,  from  New  York  to  San  Francisco.  There 
has  been  sporadic  opposition,  like  that  recently 
made  by  William  Morris,  who  had  the 
American  and  Plaza  Music  Halls  in  New  York 
and  a  few  others  throughout  the  country,  but 
the  end  of  this  opposition  always  has  been  com- 
promise or  defeat.  Performers  claim  that  they 
are  not  permitted  to  play  for  rival  managements 
under  pain  of  being  placed  on  the  dread  "black- 
list", and  that,  once  so  placed,  they  may  as  well 
retire  from  the  business.  Whether  this  be  true 
or  not — it  probably  is  true — and  however  high- 
handed the  conduct  of  the  combination,  the  ob- 
server must  concede  that  business-like  system, 
economical  methods  and  complete  order  have 
been  established  by  the  United  Booking  Of- 
fices. 

This  combination  includes  the  Hammersteins, 
father  and  son,  who  have  the  Victoria  Theater  in 

341 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

New  York;  Percy  Williams,  who  controls  the 
Colonial,  the  Alhambra,  the  Bronx,  and  two  the- 
aters in  Brooklyn;  B.  F.  Keith,  who  operates 
theaters  in  the  metropolis,  in  Boston,  in  Phila- 
delphia, and  in  Providence;  and  the  heads  of 
great  circuits  like  the  Orpheum,  and  Sullivan 
and  Considine's.  There  are  eight  handsome 
vaudeville  theaters  on  Manhattan  Island,  not 
counting  the  burlesque  houses  and  the  places  at 
which  moving  pictures  form  a  large  part  of  the 
bill,  and  it  is  easy  to  estimate  that,  if  each  of 
these  holds  fifteen  hundred  persons  at  a  per- 
formance, twenty-four  thousand  men,  women 
and  children  witness  a  variety  entertainment 
every  week  in  New  York.  This  estimate  does 
not  include  the  "sacred  concerts",  which,  in  spite 
of  clerical  and  legal  opposition,  continue  to 
flourish.  On  the  Sabbath,  apparently,  the  young 
man's  fancy  lightly  turns  to  thoughts  of  song  and 
dance,  and  every  vaudeville  theater  in  town  runs 
full  blast  on  Sunday. 

However  bitterly  their  success  may  be  resent- 
ed, it  is  to  the  newcomers,  to  the  recruits  from  the 

342 


IN  VAUDEVILLE 

"legitimate",  that  vaudeville  owes  its  steady  ad- 
vancement. One  may  sympathize  with  the  acro- 
bat who,  after  a  life  time  spent  in  acquiring 
proficiency  in  his  specialty,  sees  the  big  salaries 
being  paid  to  men  who  devoted  a  week  to  re- 
hearsing some  sketch,  and  who  couldn't  turn  a 
handspring  to  save  their  souls.  The  fact  re- 
mains that  vaudeville's  claim  to  the  considera- 
tion of  intelligent  people  rests  largely  upon  these 
tabloid  comedies  and  dramas.  The  vogue  of 
such  clever  little  plays  as  "At  the  Telephone", 
"The  Man  From  the  Sea",  "Circumstantial  Ev- 
idence", "In  Old  Edam",  "When  Pat  Was 
King",  "The  Welcher"  and  "The  Flag  Station" 
— which,  by  the  way,  was  written  by  Eugene 
Walter,  author  of  "The  Easiest  Way"— marks 
a  step  forward  in  the  possibilities  of  "the  two  a 
day."  It  enables  such  men  as  Will  Cressy, 
whose  whole  output  has  been  of  sketches,  to 
venture  upon  higher  ground,  and  it  banishes 
more  surely  the  mixture  of  buffoonery  and 
maudlin  sentiment  that  formerly  passed  as  play- 
lets. 

343 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

The  progress  made  in  this  sort  of  entertain- 
ment is  indicated  by  the  unequivocal  success  of 
Frank  Keenan  in  "The  Oath",  an  intense  little 
tragedy,  founded  upon  a  theme  used  by  Lope  de 
Vega.  Only  ten  years  ago  this  same  Frank 
Keenan  suffered  complete  lack  of  appreciation  of 
his  fine  work  in  an  adaptation  of  Poe's  "The 
System  of  Dr.  Tarr  and  Professor  Feather/' 
Many  well-made  sketches,  logically  planned  and 
skillfully  written,  still  owe  their  presence  in  vau- 
deville wholly  to  the  reputation  of  their  stars. 
"The  Walsingham",  as  Walsingham  Potts  used 
to  say  in  Madison  Morton's  farce  of  "A  Regu- 
lar Fix",  "is  a  sort  of  guava  jelly  in  which  you 
swallow  the  bitter  pill,  Potts."  Other  one  act 
dramas  of  great  merit  fail  altogether. 

London  successes  like  "The  Monkey's  Paw", 
and  Paris  successes,  like  "The  Submarine"  and 
"After  the  Opera",  have  ended  miserably  in 
New  York.  Such  authors  as  Clyde  Fitch  have 
seen  their  work  retired  after  a  fortnight's  trial. 
Two  tabloid  pieces,  "Dope"  and  "By-Products", 
from  the  pen  of  Joseph  Medill  Patterson,  auth- 

344 


IN  VAUDEVILLE 

or  of  "The  Fourth  Estate",  after  scoring  tri- 
umphs of  esteem  in  Chicago,  have  not  been  given 
bookings  in  the  East.  It  is  not  yet  true  that 
any  three  one-act  plays  in  vaudeville,  if  given 
continuity  and  put  together,  would  make  a  pass- 
able three  act  play,  but  there  are  optimists  among 
us  who  feel  that  that  time  will  come.  We  be- 
lieve that,  without  being  less  entertaining,  less 
diversified,  or  less  easily  enjoyed,  vaudeville  will 
come  to  be  made  up  of  fewer  "Jewish"  or 
"Irish"  comedians,  fewer  "sister  acts",  fewer 
trained  seals,  and  a  greater  number  of  people 
who  have  something  really  clever  to  offer  in 
song  or  speech  or  impersonation. 

The  place  of  the  tabloid  drama  is  secure,  since 
it  bears  the  same  relation  to  the  ordinary  drama 
that  the  short  story  does  to  the  novel.  One  day 
we  shall  have  a  Theatre  Antoine  or  a  Theatre 
des  Capucines  in  New  York.  The  popularity  of 
the  short  play,  with  all  its  opportunities  for 
skillful  construction  and  good  acting,  will  fol- 
low as  the  night  the  day.  The  nudities  and 
lewdities  of  last  year  and  this  are  but  a  passing 

345 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE  AND  AFT 

phase.  Whatever  vaudeville  was  in  the  past, 
or  is  in  the  present,  it  offers  endless  promise  for 
the  future. 


346 


>> 


WITH  THE  PEOPLE  "IN  STOCK 


Concerning  Camille,  ice  cream,  spirituality,  red  silk  tights, 
Blanche  Bates,  Thomas  Betterton,  second-hand  plays,  pa- 
rochialism, matinee  girls,  Augustin  Daly,  and  other  inter- 
esting topics. 


HY  is  a  resident  theatrical  organ- 
ization known   as   a  stock   com- 
pany?"   Blanche  Bates  repeated 
after  me  one  afternoon  when  she  was  playing  in 
'The  Dancing  Girl"  at  the  Columbia  Theater, 
Washington.     "Simply  because  the  people  in  it 
work  like  horses." 

Miss  Bates,  whose  name  at  that  time  prob- 
ably was  as  unfamiliar  to  David  Belasco  as  any 
word  in  Arabic,  knew  whereof  she  spoke.  She 
had  been  for  several  seasons  with  T.  Daniel 
Frawley  in  San  Francisco,  she  had  had  four  roles 
and  a  row  with  Augustin  Daly  inside  of  two 
months  in  New  York,  and  finally  she  had  cast  her 
lot  with  a  combination  that  was  whiling  away 
the  summer  months  by  producing  a  new  piece 

347 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE  AND  AFT 

every  week  in  the  hottest  city  in  America.  Af- 
ter a  little  time  I'm  going  to  tell  you  just  what 
labor  is  involved  in  producing  a  new — or,  rath- 
er, a  different— piece  every  week.  For  the  pres- 
ent, suffice  it  to  say  that  Miss  Bates'  witticism 
was  founded  on  a  whimsical  view  of  facts,  and 
that  the  modern  stock  company  is  exclusively  re- 
sponsible for  the  existence  of  that  amazing  anom- 
aly, a  hard-working  actor. 

Most  actors  are  kept  fairly  busy  three  weeks 
each  year,  that  period  being  devoted  to  rehears- 
ing the  one  play  in  which  they  appear  during  the 
course  of  a  season.  Throughout  the  remainder 
of  eight  months  they  are  actually  occupied  about 
four  hours  per  diem,  and  at  the  end  of  these 
eight  months  they  count  on  having  four  months 
for  rest,  recreation  and  relaxation.  This  is  not 
at  all  true  of  the  man  or  woman  "in  stock",  who, 
in  the  language  of  the  street,  "is  on  the  job" 
twenty-four  hours  a  day  and,  when  there  is  spe- 
cial need  of  exertion,  gets  up  an  hour  earlier  in 
the  morning  to  make  it  twenty-five. 

The  great  bulk  of  New  York  theater-goers, 

348 


"Known  as  a  stock  company 

because  the  people  in 
it  work  like  horses" 


WITH  THE  PEOPLE  IN  STOCK 

with  the  parochialism  that  characterizes  them, 
know  practically  nothing  about  stock  companies. 
Perhaps,  the  chief  reason  of  this  is  that  within 
the  memory  of  man  they  never  have  had  fewer 
than  five  at  one  time.  Stock  companies  in  Phil- 
adelphia or  Boston  they  might  have  studied  at 
long  distance  as  curious  institutions,  but  never 
stock  companies  so  unappealingly  near  as  Fifty- 
eighth  Street  and  Lexington  Avenue.  Your  blithe 
Broadwayite  leaves  such  places  of  amusement  to 
the  people  in  their  neighborhood,  and  sticks  to 
musical  comedy  in  the  vicinity  of  Times  Square. 

Broadway  used  to  keep  close  track  of  stock 
companies  when  the  two  Frohmans  had  fine  or- 
ganizations at  the  old  Lyceum  and  at  the  Em- 
pire— when  John  Drew  and  Henry  Miller  and 
Georgia  Cayvan  were  seen  in  such  new  pieces 
as  "The  Grey  Mare"  and  "The  Charity  Ball." 
Fifth  Avenue  is  beginning  to  re-make  an  ac- 
quaintance with  the  scheme  of  resident  or- 
ganizations, through  the  medium  of  that  at 
the  New  Theatre,  and  Charles  Frohman  re- 
cently  has   announced   his    intention   of   estab- 

35i 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

lishing  an  important  stock  company  under  the 
directorship  of  William  Gillette.  This  announce- 
ment brings  with  it  high  hopes;    the  very  sug- 
gestion calls  to  mind  the  departed  glories,  not 
only  of  the  Empire  and  the  Lyceum,  but  of  the 
Union  Square,  Daly's,  and  the  Madison  Square. 
The  stock  company  with  which  we  have  be- 
come familiar  of  late  has  been  a  very  different 
kind  of  affair.     Its  field  has  been  limited,  and 
the  purpose  of  its  managers  merely  the  giving  of 
old  plays  at  popular  prices.     If  you  have  been  in 
the  world  long  enough  to  learn  that  whatever 
is  cheap  in  price  is  cheap  in  quality — that  no  mer- 
chant deliberately  sells  at  a  loss — you  will  have 
little  difficulty  in  understanding  that,  with  rare 
exceptions,  the  performances  offered  have  been 
mediocre.      Sixteen,   eighteen  or  twenty   fairly 
competent  actors  and  actresses  are' formed  into 
a  cast  that  prepares  a  different  play  every  week  in 
its    season.      The    plays    generally    have    had 
their    day    in    the    hands    of    regular    travel- 
ing organizations.    It  is  not  often  that  the  result 
has  in  it  more  than  three  letters  from  the  word 

352 


WITH  THE  PEOPLE  IN  STOCK 

"artistic."  Such  aggregations  have  held  forth  in 
Gotham  at  various  times  on  the  stages  of  the 
American,  the  Fifty-eighth  Street,  the  One  Hun- 
dred and  Twenty-fifth  Street,  the  Yorkville,  the 
Fifth  Avenue,  the  Murray  Hill,  the  West  End, 
the  Plaza,  and  other  theaters.  They  used  to  be 
particularly  indigenous  to  that  portion  of  our 
metropolitan  soil  known  as  Harlem,  but  now  are 
confined  almost  entirely  to  Brooklyn. 

This  brand  of  stock  company,  which  we  may 
as  well  label  "The  Contemporary  Brand",  had 
its  origin  in  some  large  Eastern  city  where  an 
enterprising  theatrical  manager  planned  to  pro- 
vide summer  amusement  for  such  of  his  patrons 
as  wanted  to  stay  in  town  through  the  hot  weath- 
er— and  for  the  husbands  of  those  who  didn't. 
The  traveling  troupes  had  all  shut  up  for  a  few 
months,  so  this  manager  was  obliged  to  form  an 
organization  of  his  own.  I'll  bet  that,  at  the 
same  time,  he  originated  the  story  about  install- 
ing a  pipe  system  for  distributing  cool  air 
throughout  his  house — a  pleasant  little  Christian 
Science  lie  that  since  has  become  classic.    How- 

353 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE  AND  AFT 

ever  that  may  be,  the  venture  paid.  Imitation 
is  called  initiative  in  the  theatrical  business,  and 
the  following  year  there  were  fifty  "summer 
stock  companies."  Then  somebody  discovered 
that  these  combinations,  playing  at  low  prices, 
had  attracted  a  clientele  of  their  own,  that  they 
drew  people  whose  purses  would  not  permit  their 
visiting  the  best  theaters,  and  whose  taste  stood 
between  them  and  the  other  houses.  So  somebody 
else  tried  running  a  stock  company  all  through 
the  season,  and  succeeded.  Within  a  little  time 
there  were  enterprises  of  this  sort  in  most  cities 
of  the  size  of  Pittsburg  or  Cincinnati ;  then  they 
crept  into  towns  like  Hartford  and  Providence; 
now-a-days  any  village  populous  enough  to  boast 
of  two  saloons,  a  church  and  a  dry  goods  store 
has  also  its  opera  house  and  its  stock  company. 

In  the  big  cities  these  aggregations  of  histri- 
onic talent  generally  offer  a  fresh  play  every 
week;  in  some  of  the  smaller  places  two  are  giv- 
en in  the  course  of  seven  days.  One  play  a  week 
is  the  usual  thing,  however,  and  the  amount  of 
labor  it  involves  is  stupendous.     Not  only  must 

354 


WITH  THE  PEOPLE  IN  STOCK 

that  one  play  be  prepared  in  the  time  mentioned, 
but  simultaneously  the  company  must  be  thinking 
of  and  acting  another  play — that  already  being 
performed  for  the  benefit  of  the  public.  Dr. 
Doran,  in  his  "Annals  of  the  Stage",  speaks  of 
the  hard  work  accomplished  by  actors  in  the 
Eighteenth  Century,  when  Thomas  Betterton 
"created  a  number  of  parts  never  equaled  by  any 
subsequent  actor — namely,  one  hundred  and 
thirty."  The  good  doctor,  who  waxes  quite  en- 
thusiastic over  Betterton,  adds:  "In  some  single 
seasons  he  studied  and  represented  no  less  than 
eight  original  parts — an  amount  of  labor  that 
would  shake  the  nerves  of  the  stoutest  among  us 
now."  Dr.  Doran's  esteemed  friend,  Master 
Betterton,  probably  would  have  had  his  own 
nerves  a  good  deal  shaken  had  he  found  himself 
in  this  year  of  our  Lord  191 1 — say  at  the  Chest- 
nut Street  Theatre,  Philadelphia. 

Vitcory  Bateman,  a  charming  actress  whose 
health  recently  was  reported  to  be  seriously  af- 
fected by  the  strain  of  the  work  she  had  done  in 
stock  companies,   played  twenty  leading  roles 

355 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE  AND  AFT 

in  five  months.  Of  these  and  the  number  of 
words  in  each  she  gives  the  following  account 
in  a  book  she  wrote  in  collaboration  with  Ada 
Patterson : 

Mrs.      Winthrop      in      "Young 

Mrs.  Winthrop" 7,000 

Floradilla     in     "A     Fool's     Re- 
venge"    6,750 

Louise  in  "The  Two  Orphans"  7,250 

Cecile  in  "David  Laroque" .  .  .  .  6,500 
Adrienne      in      "A      Celebrated 

Case" 7>°°° 

Camille  in  "Camille" 7i300 

Carmen   in   "Carmen" 7,200 

Portia  in  "Julius  Caesar" 6,500 

Eliza  in  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin".  7,500 

Ruth  in  "The  Wages  of  Sin" .  .  6,000 

Juliet  in  "Romeo  and  Juliet" .  .  .  7,500 

Dora  in  "Diplomacy" 6,900 

Portia    in    "The    Merchant    of 

Venice"   7>6oo 

Ophelia  in  "Hamlet" 7,000 

356 


•<■  <, 


fcoas^E 

MONIV 
TUESI 

1FW7GD  ©I 

^nn      WEDN 

r  1  ^iAgf 


"Master  Betterton  would  have 
had  his  nerves  a  good  deal 
shaken" 


WITH  THE  PEOPLE  IN  STOCK 

Mrs.  Gregory  Graxin  in  "The 

Tragedy"    6,500 

Desdemona  in  "Othello" 7,000 

Alice  in  "In  Spite  of  All" 7,500 

Frou-Frou  in  "Frou-Frou".  .  .  .  7,000 

Vera  in  "Moths" 6,000 

Roxane  in  "Cyrano" 8,000 

Total 140,000  words 

Some  of  the  details  of  this  statement  strike 
me  as  being  erroneous.  I  do  not  believe,  for 
example,  that  Roxane  is  a  longer  part  than  Ju- 
liet. One  thing  I  do  not  doubt — that  the  aver- 
age stock  leading  woman  learns  140,000  words 
in  a  season.  And  140,000  words,  we  must  un- 
derstand, are  the  number  contained  in  two  fair- 
sized  novels  or  "fourteen  pages  of  a  large  news- 
paper." 

The  mere  statement  that  so  much  matter  has 
to  be  committed  to  memory  does  not  give  a  fair 
idea  of  the  amount  of  work  that  has  to  be  ac- 
complished by  the  actor  or  the  actress — espe- 

359 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

cially  the  actress — under  these  conditions.  In 
addition  to  learning  each  role  she  must  rehearse 
it.  These  rehearsals  will  occupy  every  morning 
of  the  six  days  whose  afternoons  and  evenings 
are  devoted  to  the  public  performance  of  anoth- 
er part.  In  addition,  the  actress  must  figure  on 
giving  time  to  dressmakers,  since  each  character 
must  be  properly  costumed;  to  wig  makers  and 
to  allegedly  unavoidable  social  duties.  The  in- 
evitable result  is  a  crudity  and  carelessness  in  the 
interpretation  of  plays  that  would  not  be  toler- 
ated by  any  theater-goers  in  the  world  except 
those  that  do  tolerate  it.  This  can  be  better 
understood  when  one  learns  that  the  average 
time  spent  in  the  preparation  of  a  piece  to  run  in 
New  York  is  something  like  three  weeks— three 
weeks  in  which  the  players  have  nothing  else  to 
occupy  their  minds. 

The  members  of  the  ordinary  stock  company 
scarcely  pretend  to  know  their  lines  before  the 
third  repetition  of  the  comedy  or  drama  in  hand. 
John  Findlay,  a  fine  old  actor,  used  to  complain 
to  me  that  always  he  "had  just  begun  to  under- 

360 


l(M 


hi 


"The  actress  must  figure 

on  giving  time  to  dressmakers" 


WITH  THE  PEOPLE  IN  STOCK 

stand  what  a  piece  was  about  when  they  took  it 
off  and  put  on  another."  I  remember  an  amus- 
ing incident  in  connection  with  a  rendering  of  a 
certain  light  comedy  by  a  stock  company  in  Bal- 
timore. A  scene  in  this  comedy  was  divided 
between  two  men,  one  of  them  seated  at  a  desk 
and  the  other  standing  before  that  article  of 
furniture  with  his  hat  in  his  hand.  Both  actors 
having  forseen  opportunities  of  concealing  their 
manuscripts  where  they  could  see  them  and  the 
audience  could  not,  neither  had  learned  a  single 
word  of  the  dialogue.  The  first  player  had  his 
part  on  the  desk;  the  second  hid  it  in  his  hat. 
But  the  second  man  had  forgotten  that,  at  a 
critical  moment,  the  office  boy  was  supposed  to 
take  that  hat.  The  moment  arrived,  the  boy 
took  the  hat,  and  the  unlucky  Thespian,  at  his 
wits'  end,  could  think  of  nothing  better  to  do 
than  read  the  remainder  of  his  speeches  over  the 
shoulder  of  his  colleague. 

Opening  nights  with  stock  companies  would 
be  dreadful  affairs,  but  for  that  kindly  provision 
of  Fate,  "the  old  stock  actor."     There  usually 

363 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

are  three  or  four  of  this  man  and  woman  In  an 
organization,  and  each  of  the  three  or  four,  at 
one  time  or  another,  has  played  nearly  every  part 
known  to  his  or  her  "line  of  business."  Your 
"old  stock  actor",  who  need  not  be  old  as  to 
years,  will  be  familiar  with  half  the  roles  en- 
trusted to  him  or  her  in  a  season,  so  that  a  lit- 
tle study  serves  to  prompt  recollection  of  the 
lines,  and  even  such  memory  of  details  as  may 
be  of  great  assistance  when  communicated  to  the 
stage  director. 

Unfortunately,  scenery  and  other  accessories 
cannot  share  this  advantage.  The  small  town 
stock  company  possesses  eight  or  ten  regular 
settings  and  a  scene  painter,  whose  efforts  usu- 
ally are  confined  to  retouching  shabby  spots  on 
the  canvas  and  to  coloring  furniture,  cannon, 
trees  and  similar  trifles.  Occasionally  he  paints 
new  wall  paper  and  pictures,  which,  with  the 
blessed  aid  of  the  stage  carpenter,  who  can 
change  windows  from  left  to  right  and  doors 
from  right  to  left,  transform  the  banquet  hall 
of  some  Roman  noble  (Period  40  B.  C.)  to  the 

364 


WITH  THE  PEOPLE  IN  STOCK 

front  room  of  a  Harlem  apartment  (Period 
191 1  A.  D.)  A  week  doesn't  allow  much  time 
for  accuracy,  and  mine  eyes  have  seen  the  tent 
of  Mark  Antony  electric  lighted,  Louis  XVI 
chairs  in  the  palace  of  Macbeth,  and  a  Queen 
Ann  cottage  occupied  by  Shylock  and  his  daugh- 
ter Jessica. 

When  melo-drama  is  produced  worse  horrors 
than  this  are  likely  to  intrude  themselves  upon 
first  nights.  Balky  locomotives  will  refuse  to  run 
over  prostrate  heroines,  and  I  once  witnessed  a 
premier  matinee  of  "The  Gunner's  Mate"  at 
which  the  jib  boom  displayed  a  most  distressing 
penchant  for  knocking  off  the  helmet  of  the 
ship's  Captain.  Stage  management  frequently 
is  responsible  for  even  worse  blunders. 

The  theater-goers  who  frequent  the  homes  of 
stock  companies — they  are,  for  the  most  part, 
wives  of  sign  painters  and  journeyman  printers 
— don't  seem  to  mind  things  of  this  sort  in  the 
least.  Early  in  the  season  they  begin  to  pick  fa- 
vorites in  the  organization,  and  they  follow  the 
annual  progress  of  such  play-acting  pilgrims  with 

365 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

great  care.  The  value  of  a  man  or  woman  to  his 
or  her  stock  company  depends  largely  upon  his 
or  her  personal  following,  and  I  have  known 
leading  men  to  be  so  sure  of  this  following  that, 
upon  being  dismissed,  they  have  harangued 
crowds  on  the  street  in  front  of  their  theaters. 
This  very  episode,  by  the  way,  occurred  only  a 
few  years  ago  in  New  York. 

Matinee  idols  achieve  popularity,  not  accord- 
ing to  their  own  deserts,  but  according  to  the  he- 
roism of  the  folk  they  impersonate  in  the  course 
of  a  season.  It  might  be  estimated  safely  that 
one  opportunity  at  Sydney  Carton,  one  at  Ar- 
mand  Duval,  and  one  at  Romeo  would  establish 
the  least  prepossessing  of  leading  men  in  the 
marshmallowy  affections  of  the  stock  company 
matinee  girl.  These  young  women  and  their 
neighbors  have  singularly  distorted  ideas  of  good 
acting,  and  their  partizanship  makes  them  blind 
to  the  imperfections  of  their  favorite  players.  In 
Brooklyn  it  used  to  be  a  common  thing  to  hear 
that  Cecil  Spooner  was  much  better  than  Mrs. 
Leslie  Carter  as  Zaza,   and  a  little  time  ago 

366 


WITH  THE  PEOPLE  IN  STOCK 

Pittsburg  did  not  hesitate  to  put  Sarah  Truax 
above  Mrs.  Fiske  for  her  impersonation  of 
Nora. 

The  manager  who  successfully  pilots  a  stock 
company  through  the  shoals  and  shallows  of 
forty  weeks  must  have  uncommon  perspicacity. 
Not  alone  must  he  secure  players  who  are  likely 
to  become  popular,  but,  more  important  still,  he 
must  select  plays  that  will  appeal  to  all  of  his 
patrons  all  of  the  time.  Too  much  tragedy  and 
he  is  quite  sure  to  lose  the  men  in  his  gallery; 
too  much  comedy  and  the  girls  in  the  orchestra 
begin  to  thin  out.  Then,  too,  his  purse  must  be 
considered.  The  rental  of  popular  plays  is 
high.  When  first  the  piece  was  released  for 
stock  the  royalties  asked  for  "Peter  Pan"  were 
a  thousand  dollars  per  week.  Few  plays  bring 
as  much  as  this,  but  royalties  rarely  are  under 
one  hundred  dollars  and  generally  range  between 
two  hundred  and  fifty  and  four  hundred.  Of 
course,  there  are  many  dramatic  works  whose 
age  makes  them  anybody's  property,  and  the 
skillful  manager  balances  his  profit  and   loss 

367 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE  AND  AFT 

neatly  by  sandwiching  these  in  with  the  costly 
ones.  When  you  see  that  your  pet  stock  com- 
pany is  to  follow  "Salomy  Jane"  with  "Camille" 
you  may  be  sure  that  its  manager  is  evening  up 
matters  on  his  books. 

The  same  degree  of  skill  that  is  required  in 
other  theatrical  advertising  is  required  of  the 
man  who  conducts  a  stock  company.  Various 
odd  schemes  have  been  tried  with  effect,  the  best 
seeming  to  be  that  of  giving  things  away.  There 
are  now  various  theaters  at  which  food  and  drink 
is  served  between  acts,  generally  eliciting  real 
evidences  of  appreciation.  Personally,  I  cannot 
see  how  a  bad  performance  of  "Too  Much 
Johnson"  with  ice  cream  would  be  more  endura- 
ble than  the  same  performance  without,  but  ap- 
parently this  failure  on  my  part  indicates  a 
unique  state  of  mind.  Receptions  on  the  stage, 
at  which  the  public  meets  the  players,  have 
proved  an  attraction,  and  they  have  the  addi- 
tional merit  of  helping  to  establish  the  necessary 
entente  cordiale.  The  distribution  of  actors' 
photographs,  the  inauguration  of  guessing  and 

368 


®&mtb^0®ffi 


"Evening  up  matters  on  his  books" 


WITH  THE  PEOPLE  IN  STOCK 

voting  contests,  and  similar  features,  keep  alert 
the  brain  of  the  man  at  the  helm  of  the  small 
town  "stock." 

To  the  most  casual  reader  even  this  very 
casual  article  must  have  made  apparent  the  dis- 
advantages of  the  average  resident  aggregation. 
First  among  these,  perhaps,  is  the  impossibility 
of  producing  new  plays  under  a  system  which  re- 
quires the  presentation  of  fresh  material  so  fre- 
quently. A  new  play  cannot  possibly  be  re- 
hearsed in  a  week.  This  is  a  misfortune  to  the 
company,  which  must  develop  its  best  talent  in 
unhackneyed  vehicles;  a  misfortune  to  the  pub- 
lic, which  must  tire  of  seeing  second-handed  com- 
edies and  tragedies;  and  most  of  all  a  misfor- 
tune to  the  inner  circle  of  theatrical  folk,  to 
whom  the  stock  organization  should  offer  un- 
rivalled opportunities  for  the  quick  and  inexpen- 
sive testing  of  untried  manuscripts. 

Since  new  plays  are  not  within  the  range  of 
these  organizations,  it  seems  a  pity  that  they 
cannot  be  allowed  more  leisurely  preparation  of 
the  old.    Performances  never  can  be  good,  much 

37i 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

less  artistic,  while  they  are  made  ready  as  rapidly 
as  is  necessary  at  present.  Neither  can  they 
be  good  so  long  as  a  certain  small  body  of  peo- 
ple must  divide  among  them  whatever  parts  of- 
fer, regardless  of  equipment  or  natural  tenden- 
cies. Because  Minnie  Jones  is  suited  to  the  in- 
genue role  in  this  week's  farce  it  does  not  fol- 
low that  she  will  be  ideal  in  the  ingenue  role  of 
the  tragedy  done  next  week. 

We  hear  that  this  sort  of  thing  means  excel- 
lent histrionic  training,  but  there  is  no  law  com- 
pelling audiences  to  attend  training  schools,  and 
the  results  of  putting  square  pegs  into  any 
old  sort  of  hole  are  often  too  ludicrous.  It 
is  appalling  to  reflect  that  the  lady  who  plays  ' 
Mrs.  Micawber  today  may  be  cast  for  Du  Bar- 
ry tomorrow.  I  remember  one  poor  little  girl 
who  had  been  engaged  to  "do"  soubrettes  at  the 
National  Theater,  Washington.  She  was  a 
charming  little  thing,  and  for  a  whole  season  she 
successfully  met  all  comers  of  her  weight  and 
age.  In  "Esmeralda"  I  recall  having  thought 
her  the  most  ethereal  of  women.  Two  weeks  later 

372 


WITH  THE  PEOPLE  IN  STOCK 

she  became  the  comic  opera  star  in  "All  the 
Comforts  of  Home,"  and  I  discovered  that  what 
was  spirituality  in  "Esmeralda"  became  emacia- 
tion in  red  silk  tights. 

Much  as  I  have  harped  on  the  disadvantages 
of  the  stock  company,  I  believe  most  solemnly 
that  its  advantages  are  over-balancing.  Even 
bad  bread  is  better  for  the  system  than  good 
whiskey,  and  a  crude  performance  of  "Romeo 
and  Juliet"  is  to  be  preferred  to  the  best  possi- 
ble performance  of  "The  Girl  and  the  Outlaw." 
The  prices  for  these  "attractions"  are  about  the 
same,  and  the  people  who  now  go  to  see  "Romeo 
and  Juliet"  are  precisely  the  people  who  other- 
wise would  go  to  see  "The  Girl  and  the  Out- 
law." Slowly  but  surely,  even  the  current  stock 
company  interpretations  educate  the  taste  of 
theater-lovers,  until  they  begin  asking  for  bet- 
ter things,  and,  seeking,  find.  In  addition, 
there  seems  no  doubt  that  these  organizations 
provide  exceptional  schooling  for  young  actors, 
who,  by  their  aid,  play  two  or  three  hundred 
parts  in  a  period  during  which  otherwise  they 

373 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE  AND  AFT 

would  play  five.  It  has  been  urged  against  this 
that  they  also  acquire  habits  of  haste  and  care- 
lessness, but  I  always  have  found  actors  with 
stock  experience  superior  to  those  without  it. 
The  consequence  of  this  particular  phase  of  the 
stock  system  must  be  of  inestimable  value  to  the 
theater  in  America. 

Then,  too,  it  is  a  kind  of  interchangeable 
cause  and  effect  that  the  quality  of  stock  perform- 
ances improves  with  the  taste  of  their  patrons. 
Of  late  years,  fewer  autographed  photographs 
have  been  distributed  among  audiences,  and  more 
money  has  been  spent  in  the  painting  of  proper 
scenery.  Manner  has  been  less  frequently  re- 
quired for  stage  receptions,  and  more  frequently 
for  drawing  room  drama.  The  combination  of 
several  organizations  under  one  management, 
like  that  of  the  Baker  Chain,  in  Seattle,  Port- 
land and  Spokane,  with  consequent  possibili- 
ties of  reciprocal  borrowing,  has  accomplished 
wonders  in  the  way  of  betterment. 

"Out  West",  where  touring  companies  are 
rarer  than  this  side  of  the  Missouri,  and  where 

374 


WITH  THE  PEOPLE  IN  STOCK 

metropolitan  successes  arrive  tardily,  notably  fine 
stock  aggregations  have  come  largely  to  take  the 
place  of  visiting  stars.  There  are  two  excellent 
companies  located  in  Los  Angeles,  and  I  have 
heard  that  the  superiority  of  their  performances 
has  seriously  injured  the  business  of  the  "first 
class"  theaters.  John  Blackwood,  at  the  Belasco, 
and  Oliver  Morosco,  at  the  Burbank,  make  com- 
plete productions  of  every  piece  offered,  and 
often  they  are  able  to  give  Los  Angelites  their 
first  view  of  some  much-discussed  triumph  of 
Broadway.  In  such  cases,  it  is  not  unusual  for 
the  play  to  last  six  or  eight  weeks,  and  George 
Broadhurst's  "The  Dollar  Mark",  initially  pre- 
sented at  the  Belasco,  had  a  longer  run  there  than 
in  New  York.  It  will  be  seen  at  once  how  such 
public  support  enables  a  company  to  be  worthier 
of  support — a  kind  of  beneficent  perpetual  mo- 
tion. 

While  the  East  is  not  yet  so  far  advanced,  nor 
so  nearly  rid  of  the  stock  company  that  has  been 
made  typical  in  this  article,  there  are  fine  organ- 
izations in  half  a  dozen  of  our  larger  cities.     It 

375, 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

can  be  only  a  matter  of  time  before  enforced 
haste  and  economy  in  staging  stock  performances 
will  disappear  before  the  demands  of  a  more  and 
more  enlightened  clientele.  There  will  be  a 
greater  number  of  rehearsals  and  a  smaller  num- 
ber of  matinees.  The  people  who  patronize  these 
presentations  now  will  have  got  ahead  in  the 
world,  and  will  be  able  and  willing  to  pay  more 
generously  for  their  entertainment,  and  it  is  to 
be  hoped  that  the  people  who  turned  to  moving 
pictures  from  cheap  melodrama— which,  in  its 
whilom  prosperity,  we  are  to  consider  in  our 
next  chapter — in  due  time  may  turn  from  mov- 
ing pictures  to  adequate  representations  of  clas- 
sic, standard  and  popular  plays. 

All  this  will  come  in  the  nature  of  evolution. 
The  movement  will  be  accelerated  if  Charles 
Frohman  keeps  his  promise  of  giving  us  in  New 
York  such  a  stock  company  as  his  brother  main- 
tained at  the  old  Lyceum,  and  which,  at  the  same 
time,  included  Edward  J.  Morgan,  William 
Courtleigh,  George  C.  Boniface,  Mary  Man- 
nering,  Elizabeth  Tyree,  Mrs.  Charles  Walcot, 

376 


WITH  THE  PEOPLE  IN  STOCK 

Hilda    Spong,    Grant    Stewart,    Mrs.    Thomas 
Whiffen,  and  John  Findlay. 


377 


SITTING  IN  JUDGMENT  WITH  THE 

GODS 


Being  an  old  manuscript  with  a  new  preface — the  former 
dealing  with  a  lost  art,  and  the  latter  subtly  suggesting 
who  lost  it. 


THE   article   that   fills   the    following 
pages  was  written  in  1905.     Origin- 
ally printed  as  a  protest  and  a  proph- 
ecy, it  is  reprinted  here  as  history. 

Melodrama  is  dead.  It  died  of  poor  circula- 
tion and  failure  of  the  box  office  receipts.  There 
were  no  flowers,  and  there  need  be  no  regrets. 
Neither  is  there  reason  to  fear  resuscitation. 

I  should  like  to  think  that  popular  priced 
melodrama  had  been  killed  by  a  general  desire 
for  better  things.  That,  however,  is  not  the 
case.  The  death  blow  was  struck  when  the  in- 
ventor of  moving  pictures  supplied  a  form  of 
entertainment  that  demanded  even  less  of  the 
spectator  than  had  been  demanded  by  such 
classics  as  "Through  Death  Valley"  and  "The 

378 


SITTING  IN  JUDGMENT  WITH  GODS 

Millionaire  and  the  Policeman's  Wife."  The 
people  who  patronized  these  plays  are  not  now 
patronizing  worthier  plays;  they  are  attending 
performances  that  appeal  to  them  wholly 
through  the  medium  of  the  eye. 

Of  the  seven  theaters  mentioned  in  this  article 
at  present  three  are  devoted  to  moving  pictures, 
two  to  burlesque,  one  to  vaudeville,  and  one 
to  drama  in  Yiddish.  A  few  cheap  companies 
are  presenting  melodrama  in  the  provinces,  but 
not  a  single  place  of  amusement  shelters  it  in 
New  York.     Requiescat  in  pace. 

"Sitting  in  Judgment  With  the  Gods"  is  re- 
published as  a  contemporary  opinion  of  a  lost 
art.  It  was  my  intention  to  alter  the  wording 
somewhat,  substituting  more  recent  examples  for 
those  mentioned,  but  I  found  the  result  was  apt 
to  be  like  a  history  of  Rome  brought  "up-to- 
date"  by  introducing  gattling  guns  at  the  Bat- 
tle of  Pharsalius.  So  here  is  the  story  as  it  was 
set  down  in  the  beginning,  and  may  you  find 
amusement  in  reading  it. 


379 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

Melodrama,  according  to  my  dictionary,  is 
"a  dramatic  performance,  usually  tragic,  in 
which  songs  are  introduced."  The  encyclopedia 
adds  that  the  name  was  bestowed  first  upon  ''the 
opera  by  Rinuccini",  and  that  it  was  derived 
from  two  Greek  words  meaning  song  and 
drama.  This  is  extremely  awesome  and  im- 
pressive, but  I'm  afraid  I  can't  allow  you  to 
accept  it  as  applying  to  offerings  in  our  popu- 
lar-priced places  of  amusement.  Melodrama 
isn't  a  bit  like  that  in  New  York. 

It  was  the  dictionary  that  started  me  on  a 
tour  of  investigation  which  comprehended  vis- 
its to  all  of  the  seven  theaters  in  town  that  habit- 
ually present  melodrama.  There  are  so  many 
classes  of  people  in  this  big  city,  and  each  class 
has  so  many  characteristic  ways  of  working  and 
playing,  that  no  one  hundredth  of  the  popula- 
tion can  be  expected  to  know  how  any  other 
one  hundredth  lives.  The  men  and  women  who 
go  to  see  "Man  and  Superman"  don't  go  to  see 
"No  Mother  to  Guide  Her",  and  I  think  I  am 
quite  safe  in  saying  that  most  of  the  men  and 

380 


SITTING  IN  JUDGMENT  WITH  GODS 

women  who  witness  "No  Mother  to  Guide 
Her"  are  conspicuous  by  their  absence  at  "Man 
and  Superman." 

Sitting  in  judgment  with  the  gods  leaves  me 
in  doubt  as  to  why  the  latter  part  of  this  state- 
ment should  be  true.  The  plays  of  the  "No 
Mother  to  Guide  Her"  type  are  so  hopelessly 
bad,  so  obviously  false,  so  absolutely  vicious, 
that  it  is  hard  to  comprehend  a  mind  that  can 
prefer  them,  if  not  to  "Man  and  Superman", 
at  least  to  such  better  melodramas  as  "The 
Lion  and  the  Mouse"  or  "The  Squaw  Man." 
The  matter  of  money  is  no  explanation  at  all. 
Harry  and  Harriet  might  have  excellent  seats 
in  the  balcony  of  the  Lyceum  or  Wallack's  for 
the  price  of  orchestra  chairs  at  the  American, 
and,  if  it  comes  to  pride,  what  choice  is  there 
between  the  gallery,  politely  disguised  as  "the 
second  balcony,"  of  the  Belasco,  and  a  box  at 
the  Thalia? 

Melodrama  today  not  only  differs  from  the 
melodrama  of  day-be  fore-yesterday  defined  in 
the  dictionary,  but  it  differs  too  from  the  melo- 

38i 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

drama  of  yesterday.  Bartley  Campbell  and 
Dion  Boucicault  have  given  way  to  Theodore 
Kremer  and  Martin  Hurley,  while  sterling  old 
plays  like  "Siberia"  and  "The  Octoroon"  have 
been  supplanted  by  such  monstrosities  as  "Why 
Girls  Leave  Home"  and  "Too  Proud  to  Beg." 
Our  dramatic  literature  knows  no  finer  exam- 
ples of  play-building  than  "The  Two  Orphans" 
and  "The  Rommany  Rye",  but  these  pieces  are 
popular  no  longer  with  the  people  who  fre- 
quent the  Fourteenth  Street  and  the  Third 
Avenue.  Fading  interest  in  works  of  that  kind 
led  to  a  falling  off  in  the  patronage  of  "popular- 
priced"  houses  which  was  arrested  only  by  an 
immediate  appeal  to  the  lowest  and  basest  pas- 
sions of  which  mankind  is  capable.  It  is  on  the 
power  of  pandering  to  these  passions  that  the 
present  vogue  of  melodrama  is  founded. 

Emile  Zola,  that  great  photographer  of  souls, 
would  have  found  in  a  visit  to  one  of  New 
York's  low-priced  theaters  unlimited  scope  for 
analysis  of  character,  comment  on  decay,  and 
description  of  dirt  and  squalor.     The  Murray 

382 


SITTING  IN  JUDGMENT  WITH  GODS 

Hill  Theater,  the  Third  Avenue,  the  Thalia,  the 
American  and  the  Metropolis,  five  of 
the  seven  local  places  of  amusement  given 
up  to  sensational  plays,  are  relics  of  in- 
finitely better  days.  The  Thalia  was  known 
formerly  as  the  Bowery  Theater,  and  its 
stage  has  supported  nearly  all  the  great  actors 
of  an  earlier  time.  McKee  Rankin,  in  his 
palmiest  period,  directed  the  fortunes  of  the 
Third  Avenue,  while  each  of  the  other  three 
houses  was  intended  originally  for  the  best  class 
of  productions.  The  New  Star,  alone  among 
buildings  of  its  class,  has  no  history  except  that 
it  is  making  now. 

The  Thalia,  where  I  began  my  travels,  is  full 
of  contrasts.  Evidences  of  departed  grandeur 
elbow  old  dirt  and  new  gaudiness.  In  the  lob- 
by, with  its  marble  floor  and  lofty  ceiling,  stand 
hard-faced  officials  in  uniforms  that  glitter  with 
gold  braid.  Lithographic  representations  of 
various  kinds  of  crime  and  violence  hang  on  the 
walls,  advertising  the  attraction  to  follow  that 
holding  the  boards.     The  auditorium  is  archi- 

383 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

tecturally  stately  and  old  fashioned,  bearing  an 
outline  resemblance  to  the  colosseum  at  Rome. 
The  ground  floor  is  a  succession  of  steps,  on 
each  of  which  is  a  row  of  seats,  while  three 
balconies  of  horse-shoe  shape  afford  opportuni- 
ties to  the  patron  whose  financial  limit  is  ten, 
twenty  or  thirty  cents.  There  are  queer  little 
boxes  on  either  side  of  the  stage,  which  slopes 
perceptibly  and  has  in  its  middle  a  prompter's 
hood — survival  of  the  days  when  parts  were 
so  long,  and  so  many  had  to  be  learned  each 
week,  that  no  actor  could  be  trusted  out  of  sight 
of  the  man  with  the  manuscript.  The  Thalia 
is  a  theatrical  anachronism,  dilapidated,  decay- 
ed and  degraded.  It  is  a  royal  sepulchre  con- 
taining rags  and  old  iron,  a  family  mansion 
utilized  as  a  boarding  house,  a  Temple  of  Thes- 
pis  managed  by  "Al"  Woods  and  devoted,  on 
the  night  of  my  visit,  to  the  representation  of  a 
stirring  comedy  drama  in  five  acts,  entitled 
"Lured  From  Home." 

The   audiences  at  the   Thalia   are   composed 
principally  of  peddlers,  'longshoremen  and  girls 

384 


"The  Thalia's  stage  has 
supported  nearly  all  the  great 
actors  of  an  earlier  time" 


SITTING  IN  JUDGMENT  WITH  GODS 

from  the  sweat  shops.  Farther  up  town  one 
sees  sailors  and  mechanics,  with  a  sprinkling  of 
families  large  enough,  numerically  and  physi- 
cally, to  delight  Roosevelt.  Everywhere  small 
boys  abound  and  Jews  predominate.  Perched 
aloft  in  the  gallery,  one  picks  out  scores  of  types 
and  observes  dozens  of  humorous  incidents. 
Down  town  there  were  men  who  took  off  their 
coats  and  kept  on  their  hats,  probably  for  no 
better  reason  than  that  they  were  supposed  to 
do  neither.  A  fat  negress  sat  next  to  a  loudly 
dressed  shop  girl,  who  was  too  absorbed  to  draw 
the  color  line  while  the  performance  was  in  pro- 
gress, but  glared  furiously  between  acts.  The 
contention  that  the  Third  Avenue  is  "  a  family 
theater"  was  supported  by  a  mother  who  nursed 
her  baby  whenever  the  curtain  was  down  and 
the  lights  up.  Two  precocious  youths  discussed 
the  "form"  of  certain  horses  that  were  to  race 
next  day,  while  their  "best  goils",  one  on  either 
side,  alternately  stared  at  each  other  and  at 
their  programs.  Reference  to  this  bill  of  the 
play,  printed  by  the  same  firm  that  supplies  pro- 

387 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

grams  for  the  better  class  of  theaters,  dis- 
closed the  fact  that  a  large  part  of  the  pamphlet 
was  devoted  to  articles  on  "What  the  Man  Will 
Wear"  and  "Chafing  Dish  Suggestions."  It 
seemed  to  me  that  these  indicated  utter  lack  of 
a  sense  of  humor  on  the  part  of  publisher  and 
manager.  "The  Man"  at  the  Third  Avenue 
probably  wears  whatever  is  cheapest,  and  I 
can't  fancy  the  woman  feeling  a  keen  interest  in 
oyster  pan  toast  or  orange  mousse. 

Barring  a  little  difference  in  millinery  and  a 
difference  of  opinion  as  to  the  indispensability  of 
neckwear,  the  audiences  at  all  these  theaters  are 
very  much  alike.  They  read  pink  papers  assid- 
uously before  the  play  begins  and  eat  industri- 
ously throughout  the  intermissions.  Melo- 
drama seems  to  affect  the  American  appetite 
much  as  does  an  excursion.  You  may  have  no- 
ticed that  lunches  appear  the  moment  a  pleasure 
trip  begins,  and  every  cessation  of  histrionic  ac- 
tion at  a  popular-priced  house  is  a  signal  for 
the  munching  of  apples,  candy,  pop-corn,  pea- 
nuts or  chewing  gum.    Most  of  the  material  for 

388 


SITTING  IN  JUDGMENT  WITH  GODS 

these  feasts  is  furnished  by  small  boys  who  be- 
gin the  evening  selling  "song  books"  and  con- 
clude it  dispensing  provisions.  Just  as  the 
orchestra  emerges  from  under  the  stage  the 
merchant  appears,  taking  his  place  at  the  foot 
of  an  aisle  and  unburdening  his  soul  of  a  care- 
fully prepared  announcement.  "I  wish  to  call 
your  attention  for  just  about  a  few  minutes  to  the 
company's  'song  book'  ",  he  commences.  These 
volumes  invariably  are  marked  down  from  ten 
to  five  cents,  and,  for  good  measure,  the  ven- 
dor throws  in  an  old  copy  of  The  Police  Ga- 
zette. Sweets  are  his  stock  in  trade  between 
acts,  though  one  also  has  the  pleasure  of  hear- 
ing him  announce:  "Now,  friends,  I've  a  pos- 
tal card  guaranteed  to  make  you  laugh  with- 
out any  trouble." 

Reserve  is  not  a  characteristic  of  these  gath- 
erings. They  hiss  steamily  at  what  they  are 
pleased  to  consider  evil,  and  applaud  with  equal 
heartiness  that  which  seems  to  them  good.  Es- 
pecially remarkable  instances  of  virtue  also  bring 
out   shrill   whistles,   verbal   comment   and   the 

389 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

stamping  of  feet.  The  management  maintains 
in  the  gallery  a  play  censor  with  a  club,  who 
knocks  loudly  against  the  railing  when  he  feels 
that  these  evidences  of  approval  are  passing 
bounds.  What  would  not  your  two  dollar  im- 
pressario  give  if  he  could  transplant  this  en- 
thusiasm to  Broadway?  How  gladly  Charles 
Frohman  or  Henry  W.  Savage  would  trade  his 
surfeited  first  night  audience  for  one  of  those 
which  requires  only  an  heroic  speech  to  wear 
out  its  individual  hands  in  frenzied  applause ! 

They  are  a  queer,  child-like  lot — the  people 
who  compose  the  clientele  of  the  Murray  Hill 
and  the  Third  Avenue.  Intermissions  have  to 
be  made  short  for  them,  because  they  have  not 
the  patience  to  wait  for  setting  scenery,  and  he 
would  be  an  intrepid  dramatist  who  would  put 
sufficient  faith  in  the  intensity  of  a  situation  to 
trust  to  its  keeping  them  quiet  in  the  dark.  To 
an  assembly  at  the  Thalia  the  turning  out  of  the 
lights  for  the  husband's  confession  in  "The 
Climbers"  would  have  proved  only  an  oppor- 
tunity for  making  weird  noises  without  danger 

390 


SITTING  IN  JUDGMENT  WITH  GODS 

of  being  "spotted"  by  the   "bouncer."     Their 
tastes  are   primitive   and  their  sympathies  ele- 
mental.   They  have  no  time  for  fine  distinctions 
between  right  and  wrong;  a  character  is  good 
to  them  or  it  is  bad,  and  there's  an  end  to  the 
matter.       Ready  and  waiting  with  their  pity, 
one  cannot  help  believing  that  they   feel  only 
on   the   surface,    since   they   are   quite   able   to 
forget  the  tragedy  of  one  moment  in  the  com- 
edy of  the  next.     I  have  seen  them  sob  like 
babies  at  the  death  of  a  child  in  the  play  and 
break  into  uproarious  laughter  a  second  later 
at  the  intrusion  of  the  soubrette.     Their  preju- 
dices  are   explicable,   but  unexpectedly  strong, 
favoring    the    unfortunate    under    any    circum- 
stances and  finding  vent  in  bitter  hatred  of  the 
prosperous.   They  are  the  natural  enemies  of  the 
police  officer,  and,  by  the  same  token,   friends 
to  the  cracksman  or  the  convict  who  expresses 
a  particle  of  decency.     Physical  heroism  is  the 
only  kind  these  men  and  women  recognize,  and 
emphasis  rather  than  ethics  influences  their  ver- 
dict on  questions  of  virtue  and  vice.     Appar- 

393 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

ently  the  element  of  surprise  is  not  a  dramatic 
requisite  with  them,  since  every  habitual  play- 
goer of  their  class  must  know  by  heart  every 
melodramatic  theme  in  existence,  together  with 
its  incidents  and  its  outcome.  Undivided  in 
their  approval  of  the  noble  and  their  disap- 
proval of  the  ignoble,  one  soon  learns  that  their 
ideas  on  the  subject  are  theories  not  intended 
for  practice.  The  man  who  most  loudly  ap- 
plauds defence  of  a  woman  on  the  stage  is  not 
always  above  disciplining  his  wife  vigorously 
when  he  gets  home.  "Zash  right!"  I  heard  an 
inebriate  call  to  a  melodramatic  hero  who  had 
spurned  the  glass  offered  him.  "Zash  right! 
Don't  you  tush  it!" 

I  have  said  that  the  stories  and  situations  of 
melodrama  must  be  familiar  to  the  folk  who  at- 
tend such  performances,  and  I  speak  advisedly. 
One  melodrama  is  as  much  like  another  as  are 
two  circuses.  Drifting  into  the  American  one 
night  just  as  the  players  were  indulging  them- 
selves in  that  walk  before  the  curtain  which  is 
their   traditional    method   of   acknowledging   a 

394 


SITTING  IN  JUDGMENT  WITH  GODS 

"call",  I  might  easily  have  mistaken  the  prin- 
cipal pedestrians  for  the  characters  I  had  seen 
fifteen  minutes  before  at  the  Third  Avenue. 
There  they  were  without  exception — the  sailor- 
hero,  the  wronged  heroine  in  black,  the  high- 
hatted  villain,  the  ragged  child,  the  short-skirted 
soubrette,  the  police  officer,  the  apple  woman, 
the  negro  and  the  comic  Jew.  Some  of  these 
types,  notably  the  apple  woman  and  the  negro, 
are  as  old  as  melodrama,  while  others  are  but 
recently  borrowed  from  vaudeville.  Whatever 
their  origin,  they  are  the  handy  puppets  of  the 
man  who  writes  this  kind  of  play;  identified  the 
moment  they  step  on  the  stage  and  hissed  or 
applauded  according  to  the  conduct  expected  of 
them. 

This  sameness  of  character  is  paralleled  by  a 
sameness  of  dialogue  that  is  amazing.  Few 
melodramatic  heroes  do  very  much  to  justify 
their  popularity,  but  all  of  them  have  a  pugilis- 
tic fondness  for  talking  about  what  they  are 
going  to  do.  Certain  phrases  favored  by  this 
class  of  playwright  have  been  used  so  often  that 

395 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE  AND  AFT 

the  most  casual  theater-goer  will  be  able  to  re- 
call them.  "I  can  and  will",  "my  child",  "stand 
back",  "on  his  track",  "do  your  worst",  "you 
are  no  longer  a  son  of  mine"  and  "if  he  knew 
all"  are  convenient  terms  for  expressing  a  vari- 
ety of  violent  emotions.  Most  of  them  mean 
nothing  specific,  and  herein  lies  their  recommen- 
dation. It  is  so  much  easier  to  say  "if  he  knew 
all"  than  to  figure  out  precisely  what  part  of  a 
purple  past  is  of  sufficient  theatrical  value  to  be 
dilated  upon  in  a  speech. 

Apropos  of  purple  pasts  and  of  heroines  in 
black,  it  is  worthy  of  note  that  propriety  in  the 
hue  of  one's  garb  is  another  of  the  inviolable 
conventions  in  the  cheap  theaters.  Olga  Neth- 
ersole  probably  thought  she  was  doing  a  won- 
derfully original  thing  some  years  ago  when 
she  announced  that  she  would  wear  various  col- 
ors to  typify  the  regeneration  of  Camille,  but 
a  chromatic  index  to  character  antedates  the 
English  actress  by  many  decades.  To  anybody 
acquainted  with  sensational  plays  a  white  dress 
means  innocence,  a  black  dress  suffering  and  a 

396 


SITTING  IN  JUDGMENT  WITH  GODS 

red  dress  guilt  just  as  infallibly  as  the  cigarette 
habit  had  a  penchant  for  sitting  on  the  arms  of 
chairs  indicates  utter  depravity  in  a  female.  If 
you  told  an  Eighth  Avenue  amusement-lover  that 
good  women  sometimes  smoke  and  often  sit  on 
the  arms  of  chairs  he  wouldn't  believe  you. 

With  puppets  and  speeches  to  be  had  ready- 
made,  the  receipt  for  writing  a  melodrama 
would  not  seem  to  be  particularly  complicated. 
The  favorite  story  for  a  piece  of  this  sort  con- 
cerns two  men — one  poor  and  good,  the  other 
wealthy  and  bad — who  love  the  same  girl.  For 
that  reason  and  because  the  hero  "stands  be- 
tween" him  and  "a  fortune",  the  villain  plans 
to  "get  him  out  of  the  way."  The  soubrette 
saves  the  intended  victim  from  death,  the 
would-be  assassin  is  disgraced,  and  the  play 
"ends  happily."  There  may  be  a  dozen  varia- 
tions of  this  theme,  such  as  an  effort  to  send  the 
hero  to  prison  "for  another's  crime",  but,  until 
managers  found  a  gold  mine  in  the  lechery  of 
their  low-browed  patrons,  it  formed  the  central 
thread  of  four  offerings  out  of  five.    The  stock 

397 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE  AND  AFT 

plot  now-a-days  is  the  frustration  of  sundry  at- 
tempts to  sell  women  to  waiting  despoilers;  the 
dramatization  of  what  the  newspapers  describe, 
hideously  enough,  as  "white  slavery."  This  is 
an  unpleasant  subject  in  any  form,  but  the  part 
it  plays  in  current  melodrama  is  so  gross  and 
evil  that  I  shall  risk  referring  to  it  again  in  an- 
other paragraph. 

The  "fortune"  that  serves  as  bone  of  conten- 
tion in  the  tale  related  above  never  happens  to 
be  less  than  a  million.  Such  trifling  sums  as  fif- 
ty thousand  pounds  or  a  hundred  thousand  dol- 
lars are  given  very  little  consideration  in  melo- 
drama. Everyone  of  importance  lives  in  a 
"mansion"  and  carries  about  huge  rolls  of 
greenbacks.  When  the  villain  tries  to  murder 
the  hero  he  resists  the  temptation  to  stab  or 
shoot  him  quickly  and  quietly,  having  found  the 
expedient  of  binding  him  across  a  railway  track 
or  throwing  his  insensible  body  on  a  feed  belt 
more  conducive  to  a  thrilling  rescue.  Hand- 
made murder  has  no  place  in  melodrama;  all 
reputable  scoundrels  do  their  killing  by  machin- 

398 


'All  reputable  scoundrels  do 
their  killing  by  machinery" 


SITTING  IN  JUDGMENT  WITH  GODS 

ery.  The  strongest  situation  possible  in  the  sen- 
sational play  is  that  in  which  the  comedienne 
flags  the  train  or  stops  the  belt.  Next  to  this 
"big  scene"  is  the  inevitable  encounter  between 
the  villain  with  a  knife,  the  unarmed  hero,  and 
the  heroine,  who  arrives  with  a  revolver  at  what 
Joseph  Cawthorne  calls  "the  zoological  mo- 
ment." I  have  seen  the  superiority  of  the  pis- 
tol over  the  dagger  demonstrated  five  times  in 
a  single  melodrama,  yet  the  villain  never  seems 
to  profit  by  experience.  One  would  think  he 
would  learn  to  carry  a  "gun",  just  as  one  would 
think  that  the  hero  would  learn  not  to  leave  his 
coat  where  stolen  bills  might  be  placed  in  the 
pockets,  but  the  playwrights  of  the  popular- 
priced  theaters  seem  to  model  their  people  on 
the  dictum  of  Oscar  Wilde,  who  said:  "There 
are  two  kinds  of  women — the  good  women,  who 
are  stupid,  and  the  bad  women,  who  are  dan- 
gerous." Notwithstanding  their  crass  improb- 
abilities, many  melodramas  of  the  better  sort 
are  interesting  and  not  without  occasional  evi- 
dences of  clumsy  originality  and  crude  strength. 

401 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

I  enjoyed  eight  or  ten  genuine  thrills  in  the 
course  of  my  tour  of  inspection. 

If  I  was  thrilled  ten  times,  however,  I  was 
sickened  and  disgusted  a  thousand  times  at  the 
appeal  to  low  animalism  that  has  become  the 
dominant  factor  in  these  houses.  Remembering 
the  legal  obstacles  put  in  the  path  of  "Mrs. 
Warren's  Profession,"  I  could  not  help  wonder- 
ing whether  the  Comstockians  wear  blinders 
that  shut  from  their  view  everything  East  and 
West  of  Broadway.  Even  if  their  mental  har- 
ness includes  this  visage-narrowing  accoutre- 
ment it  is  difficult  to  understand  why  the  bill- 
boards scattered  about  town  have  not  indicated 
to  these  censors  the  trend  of  the  popular-priced 
theaters.  Do  not  the  titles  of  the  pieces  pre- 
sented indicate  the  truth  of  the  situation?  What 
may  one  suppose  is  the  character  of  such  plays 
as  "Her  First  False  Step",  "Dealers  in  White 
Women",  "Why  Women  Sin",  "Queen  of  the 
White  Slaves"  and  "New  York  by  Night"? 

"Dangers  of  Working  Girls",  a  piece  of  this 
type  which  I  saw  at  the  American,  might  easily 

402 


"Comstockians  wear  blinders 
that  shut  from  their  view 
everything  East  and  West 
of  Broadway" 


SITTING  IN  JUDGMENT  WITH  GODS 

be  set  down  as  one  of  the  worst  of  the  "Dan- 
gers of  Working  Girls."  The  principal  figure 
in  the  play  was  Doctor  Sakea,  whose  profession 
was  Mrs.  Warren's  and  whose  assistants  were 
Chinamen  hired  to  lure  maidens  into  a  place  of 
evil  resort.  The  production  was  full  of  such 
lines  as  "Don't  spoil  her  beauty;  it  means  money 
to  us"  and  "Ah !  More  pretty  girls  for  the  mas- 
ter's cage",  while  its  principal  situation  was  the 
auctioning  of  a  number  of  half-dressed  women 
to  the  highest  bidder.  For  this  scene  a  crowd 
of  bestial  degenerates  attracted  by  the  posters 
waited  with  gloating  eyes  and  open  jaws.  There 
was  no  sugar-coating  over  the  pill — no  bright 
dialogue,  no  philosophy,  no  hint  at  a  "moral  les- 
son." It  was  simply  a  ghastly,  hideous,  de- 
grading appeal  to  everything  that  is  vile  and 
loathsome  in  the  under  side  of  human  nature. 

The  financial  success  of  such  pieces  as  these 
seems  to  decide  once  for  all  the  question  as  to 
whether  public  taste  influences  the  drama  or  the 
drama  public  taste.  With  clean  and  clever 
plays  a  stone's  throw  away,   at  prices  by  no 

405 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE  AND  AFT 

means  prohibitive,  no  one  need  attend  such  per- 
formances as  that  I  have  described  unless  he 
really  delights  in  that  form  of  entertainment.  I 
have  always  insisted  that  nothing  is  more  im- 
moral than  bad  art,  and,  this  being  true,  the  in- 
fluence of  the  popular-priced  theater  appears  to 
be  a  very  grave  subject,  indeed.  The  people 
who  go  to  such  places  of  amusement  have  so  lit- 
tle pleasure  in  their  lives  that  it  would  seem  a 
pity  to  take  away  whatever  they  may  crave,  yet 
it  is  not  improbable  that  these  very  peo- 
ple might  be  inclined  toward  an  appreciation  of 
better  things  in  the  playhouse.  We  who  object 
to  the  description  of  crime  and  violence  in  the 
daily  papers  certainly  may  be  expected  to  find 
evil  in  its  depiction  on  the  stage;  we  who  fear 
the  discussion  of  delicate  topics  before  audi- 
ences of  cultured  men  and  women  can  find  noth- 
ing to  excuse  morbid  emphasis  upon  distressing 
scenes  before  ignorant  and  impressionable  boys 
and  girls.  Whether  or  not  they  really  believe 
that  such  plays  reflect  life,  whether  or  not  they 
are  directly  influenced,   there   certainly  can  be 

406 


SITTING  IN  JUDGMENT  WITH  GODS 

nothing  beneficial  to  them  in  constant  observa- 
tion of  coarse  humor,  silly  pathos,  and  a  dis- 
torted code  of  conduct.  I  wonder  if  there  is 
any  method  by  which  these  play-goers  can  be 
made  to  understand  that  cleverness  is  not  in- 
compatible with  entertainment  nor  good  drama 
with  interest. 


407 


THE  SMAR?  SET  ON  THE  STAGE 


Wherein  the  author  considers  comedies  of  manners,  and 
players  who  succeed  illy  in  living  up  to  them. 


"  T  H~~"^  ^^  theater  has  its  own  aristocra- 
cy", declares  the  author  of  a  book 
about  families  that,  generation  af- 
ter generation,  have  given  actors  to  that  in- 
stitution in  America.  It  is  not  of  "its  own  aris- 
tocracy" that  I  intend  writing,  but  of  the  aris- 
tocracy it  mimics.  When  I  speak  of  "The 
Smart  Set  on  the  Stage",  the  reference  is  to 
those  men  and  women  who  trail  their  cigarette 
smoke  and  their  gowns  through  the  modern 
society  play. 

There  are  fashions  in  drama,  just  as  there  are 
in  dresses,  and  managerial  modistes  begin  to 
sense  a  return  to  favor  of  the  tea  cup  comedy. 
Fifteen  years  ago,  during  an  era  of  romance, 
the  tinsmith  superceded  the  tailor.  A  decade 
later,  "guns"  were  more  worn  than  girdles,  and 

408 


THE  SMART  SET  ON  THE  STAGE 

the  prevailing  mode  in  millinery  was  the  Mexi- 
can sombrero,  with  a  leather  belt  in  place  of  a 
band.  The  hero  of  a  play  was  the  male  who 
could  shoot  straightest.  Now,  once  again,  the 
hero  is  the  gentleman  who  can  successfully  bal- 
ance, at  one  and  the  same  time,  a  punch  glass, 
a  plate  of  biscuits,  and  the  arguments  for  and 
against  running  away  with  his  friend's  wife. 
Within  the  past  few  months  we  have  had  such 
examples  of  their  school  as  "Electricity", 
"Smith",  "The  Gamblers",  "Nobody's  Widow", 
"Getting  a  Polish"  and  "We  Can't  Be  as  Bad  as 
All  That",  the  last  by  that  inveterate  dramatizer 
of  the  social  whirl,  Henry  Arthur  Jones.  With 
Jones  in  his  heaven,  all's  right  with  the  whirl'd ! 
Nor  do  these  six  compose  a  complete  list. 
Mary  Garden  is  still  "wallowing",  and  surely 
Salome  belonged  to  one  of  the  best  families  of 
the  East!  Lady  Macbeth  and  her  husband — 
not  the  Macbeths  who  make  lamp  chimneys;  O, 
dear  no! — must  have  been  in  the  blue  book  of 
their  day.  We  met  some  very  nice  people  with 
Mary  Magdalene,  too,  and  Prince  Bellidor,  in 

409 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

"Sister  Beatrice",  behaved  like  one  of  the  idle 
rich,  but  inasmuch  as  their  conduct  in  society, 
ancient  or  modern,  was  not  the  theme  of  the 
works  in  which  they  appeared  I  shall  omit  furth- 
er mention  of  these  works. 

The  rich  we  have  always  with  us.  That  is 
why  Thackeray  is  more  popular  than  Dickens, 
and  that  is  why  the  smart  set  has  been  paraded 
theatrically  since  Thespis  took  the  first  wagon 
show  on  a  tour  of  Greece.  We  are  a  lot  of 
Pomonas — particularly  the  women  among  us — 
and  we  cannot  help  revelling  in  the  doings  of 
dignitaries  whose  place  in  life,  but  for  fear  of 
making  this  article  sound  railroad-y,  I  should 
describe  as  an  elevated  station.  The  more  hum- 
ble we  are  the  greater  the  craving  and  the  de- 
light. Lizzie  Brown,  who  measures  ribbon  be- 
hind a  counter  from  breakfast  'til  dinner,  natur- 
ally extracts  infinite  pleasure  from  spending  her 
evenings  with  only  a  row  of  footlights  between 
herself  and  wonderful  beings  who  toil  not  and 
spin  nothing  but  yarns.  That  is  almost  like 
moving  in  the  best  circles  oneself;    it  is  being 

410 


THE  SMART  SET  ON  THE  STAGE 

transported  to  a  world  millions  of  miles  from 
the  brass  tracks  in  the  ribbon  counter.  Miss 
Brown  half  believes  herself  a  great  lady  by 
morning,  as  you  may  judge  by  her  manner  if  you 
go  to  her  for  a  yard  of  baby  blue.  Everyone  of 
us  has  something  of  Lizzie  Brown  in  his  or  her 
make-up.  The  same  instinct  that  moves  us  to 
marry  our  daughter  to  the  Prince  of  This  or  the 
Duke  of  That  causes  us  to  remember  "East 
Lynne"  when  we  have  forgotten  "Hazel  Kirke." 

Most  of  us  outside  the  charmed  circle  have 
ideas  of  good  society  quite  as  exaggerated  as  the 
Biblical  idea  of  Paradise.  We  may  not  fancy 
that  fashionables  go  about  with  crowns  of  light 
and  golden  harps,  but  we  do  insist  that  on  the 
stage  they  hehave  as  little  as  possible  like  or- 
dinary human  beings. 

That  is  why  it  is  so  difficult  to  write  society 
plays.  If  the  characters  you  create  do  not  feel 
and  think  normally  they  become  puppets,  and 
if  they  do  you  are  accused  at  once  of  having 
failed  to  suggest  smartness.  One  night  I  stood 
in  the  lobby  of  the  Criterion  Theater  as  the  au- 

411 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE  AND  AFT 

dience  came  out  after  having  seen  "Her  Great 
Match."  A  woman  who  passed  me  remarked: 
"I  think  it  was  charming,  but  that  man  didn't 
make  love  at  all  like  a  Prince."  Just  what  are 
the  peculiarities  of  royal  love-making  the  lady 
didn't  explain,  and  the  idiosyncracies  that  got  the 
only  prince  I  ever  knew  into  jail  had  to  do,  not 
with  the  way  he  courted,  but  with  the  number 
of  times.  In  any  event,  it  was  proved  afterward 
that  my  friend  really  was  descended  from  a  re- 
spectable veterinary  surgeon,  which  disqualifies 
me  as  an  authority  on  the  subject.  When  I 
mentioned  the  matter  to  him,  Mr.  Fitch  ob- 
served that  he  had  been  quite  chummy  with  a 
prince  or  two,  and  that,  while  he  never  actually 
had  seen  them  make  love,  he  judged  from  their 
consorts  that  their  powers  of  amatory  expres- 
sion were  quite  ordinary.  "However",  quoth 
Mr.  Fitch,  "you  can't  expect  the  public  to  believe 
that." 

It  used  to  be  a  pretty  general  impression  that 
nobody  who  had  more  than  twenty  thousand  a 
year  ever  indulged  in  a  show  of  emotion.    I  say 

412 


'.The  peculiarities  of  royal 
love-making' 


THE  SMART  SET  ON  THE  STAGE 

"nobody",  although,  of  course,  you  are  aware 
that  wealthy  parents  in  society  plays  always  are 
exceptions  to  the  rule  of  good  breeding.  Other- 
wise, imperturbability  of  the  John  Drew  kind 
was  supposed  to  be  a  trade  mark  of  culture 
blown  in  the  bottle.  Common  folk  might  laugh 
or  cry  under  stress  of  circumstances,  but  the  souls 
of  the  elect  were  sheathed  in  ice.  The  approved 
manner  of  translating  a  crisis  into  the  dialogue 
of  the  drawing  room  was  something  like  this : 

Lord  Dash:  Good  afternoon!  Rippin' 
weather,  isn't  it?  (Bus.  of  stroking  mustache.) 
I've  a  bit  of  disagreeable  news  for  you. 

Lady  Blank:  Indeed?  Will  you  have  a  cup 
of  tea,  Lord  Dash?    What  is  it? 

Lord  Dash:  No,  thank  you;  I  never  take 
tea.  Your  eldest  son,  havin'  been  detected  in  an 
act  of  forgery,  has  just  blown  out  his  bally 
brains. 

Lady  Blank :  Poor  lad  1  He  was  always  im- 
pulsive !  I  hope  he  isn't  seriously  hurt,  Lord 
Dash  ?  Dead  ?  Ah !  Now  you  really  must  let 
me  pour  you  a  cup  of  tea. 

415 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE  AND  AFT 

Having  to  combat  that  sort  of  folly  was  the 
thing  that  made  it  hard  to  write  a  society  play. 
It  was  like  dramatizing  a  novel  and  trying  to 
create  a  heroine  who  would  agree  with  the  ten 
thousand  notions  of  her  cherished  by  the  ten 
thousand  readers  of  the  book.  Gradually,  as  the 
mirror  held  up  to  nature  has  become  more  near- 
ly true,  we  have  grown  to  understand  that,  in  the 
grip  of  a  great  joy  or  grief,  a  nobleman  behaves 
very  much  like  a  bricklayer;  sometimes  a  trifle 
better,  and  sometimes,  as  in  the  case  of  the  ba- 
zaar disaster  in  Paris,  a  good  deal  worse. 

One  fact  not  universally  understood  by  per- 
sons who  criticize  the  smart  set  on  the  stage  is 
that  there  are  many  kinds  of  society.  The  group 
depicted  in  "Gallops"  or  "Lord  and  Lady  Algy" 
is  antipodally  different  from  that  shown  in  "The 
Way  of  the  World"  or  "His  House  in  Order." 
The  self-made  men  of  "The  Pit"  and  "The  Lion 
and  the  Mouse"  are  miles  removed  from  the 
aristocrats  of  "The  Idler"  or  "A  Royal  Fam- 
ily." The  gambling  males  and  cigarette-smok- 
ing females  of  "The  Walls  of  Jericho"  and  "The 

416 


THE  SMART  SET  ON  THE  STAGE 

House  of  Mirth"  have  very  little  in  common 
with  the  conservatives  of  "The  Hypocrites"  and 
"The  Duke  of  Killicrankie."  All  society  looks 
alike  to  the  assistant  dramatic  editor,  however, 
and,  if  some  girl  delivers  herself  of  a  slang 
phrase,  he  is  quick  to  realize  that  the  playwright 
who  created  her  can  know  nothing  of  good 
form. 

The  man  who  deals  with  fashionables  on  the 
stage  fingers  a  pianoforte  with  a  single  octave. 
More  than  half  of  the  conditions  that  produce 
sentiment  and  sensation  in  Harlem  never  get  as 
far  down  town  as  Fifth  Avenue.  That  is  why 
most  drawing  room  dramas  are  worked  out  with 
the  same  characters  and  about  the  same  stories. 
Someone  has  said  that  there  do  not  exist  more" 
than  three  plots  for  farce;  certainly,  not  more 
than  ten  have  been  used  in  society  plays.  Of 
these,  the  favorite  is  the  tale  of  the  good-for- 
nothing  gentleman  who  goes  away  with  the  wife 
of  the  studious  or  hard-working  hero.  Some- 
times, he  is  only  about  to  go  away  with  this  mal- 
content when  the  hero  aforesaid  finds  her  at  mid- 
417 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

night  in  the  "rooms"  of  his  rival.  The  places 
in  which  a  woman  is  found  at  midnight  are  al- 
ways "rooms";  never,  by  any  chance,  cham- 
bers, or  apartments,  or  a  flat.  Occasionally,  the 
lady,  or  the  gentleman,  or  both,  are  quite  inno- 
cent of  wrong-doing.  The  lady  may  have  come 
to  save  the  reputation  of  another  lady,  or  to  pre- 
pare a  rarebit,  but  when  the  husband  has  track- 
ed her  by  the  fan  that  years  of  Wilde  have  not 
taught  such  callers  to  hide  with  them,  he  gets 
into  a  towering  rage  and  does  not  get  out  again 
until  the  end  of  the  fourth  act.  Henry  Arthur 
Jones  calls  tea  the  prop  of  our  drama.  I  dis- 
agree with  him.  It  is  the  careless  lady  with  a 
penchant  for  nocturnal  visits  who  makes  the 
theater  possible  in  England  and  America.  You 
don't  believe  it?  Well,  some  of  the  comedies 
produced  in  New  York  during  one  season  in 
which  this  incident  figured  were  "Popularity", 
"Man  and  His  Angel",  "The  Chorus  Lady", 
"The  Three  of  Us",  "The  House  of  Mirth", 
"Daughters  of  Men",  "The  Straight  Road", 
and  "All-of-a-Sudden  Peggy."  James  M.  Barrie 

418 


' The  lady  may  have  come  to 
prepare  a  rarebit" 


THE  SMART  SET  ON  THE  STAGE 

satirized  the  situation  in  "Alice-Sit-by-the-Fire'\ 
and  then  employed  it  seriously  for  his  most  ef- 
fective scene. 

Of  course,  one  or  two  of  the  pieces  in  the  list 
given  do  not  come  strictly  under  the  head  of 
drawing  room  drama,  but  the  fact  remains  that 
a  majority  of  the  young  women  who  go  calling 
on  the  stroke  of  twelve  dive  into  indiscretion  un- 
der Marcel  waves.  The  coveting  of  his  neigh- 
bor's wife  is  supposed  to  be  a  specialty  of  the  so- 
ciety man,  and  thus  it  is  that  so  many  comedies 
of  manors  are  founded  on  that  theme.  The 
marriage  of  convenience  is  much  used  in  plays 
of  this  type,  too,  as  well  as  the  mesalliance  that 
afterward  turns  out  well.  Divorce  is  coming 
more  and  more  into  vogue  as  a  subject.  Then 
there  are  satires  in  which  the  follies  of  the  smart 
set  are  held  up  to  ridicule  and  execration;  come- 
dies in  which  the  vulgarisms  of  a  very  rich  man, 
usually  an  American  and  father  of  the  heroine, 
are  contrasted  favorably  with  the  culture  of  the 
aristocracy  of  Europe;  and  plays  in  which  the 
wronged  girl  figures,  wearing  a  wan  expression 

421 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE  AND  AFT 

and  a  becoming  black  dress.  Add  to  these  va- 
rieties that  class  of  composition  in  which  society 
is  only  the  background  for  contests  in  politics, 
diplomacy,  business,  or  detective  work,  and  we 
have  pretty  well  come  to  the  end  of  our  possi- 
bilities. 

Whatever  else  happens  in  the  society  play, 
there  always  is  a  dance  at  which  the  juvenile 
lovers  flirt,  and  the  serious  people  discuss  such 
tragic  things  as  ruin  and  sudden  death,  while  an 
orchestra  "off  at  R."  fiddles  through  "Love's 
Dream  After  the  Ball."  Next  to  elopements, 
ruin  and  sudden  death  are  the  chief  necessities  of 
the  society  play.  Whenever  a  gentleman  gets  on 
the  wrong  side  of  the  market,  or  has  the  misfor- 
tune to  possess  a  wife  whose  lover  is  the  hero  of 
the  piece,  instead  of  the  villain,  he  promptly  kills 
himself.  After  reading  a  succession  of  dramas 
like  "The  Climbers"  and  "The  Moth  and  the 
Flame"  one  is  amazed  to  discover  that  in  the 
United  States  only  about  one  hundreth  of  one 
per  cent,  of  the  population  cashes  in  its  checks 
self-endorsed. 

422 


THE  SMART  SET  ON  THE  STAGE 

If  you  have  followed  so  far,  patient  peruser, 
you  probably  will  join  me  in  the  conclusion  that 
the  society  play  is  nothing  on  earth  but  melo- 
drama in  a  frock  coat.  The  effectiveness  of  the 
play  depends  upon  the  completeness  of  the  dis- 
guise; with  the  dramatic  tailor  rests  the  ques- 
tion whether  you  sniff  or  sniffle.  Undraped  melo- 
drama treating  of  fashionable  folk  is  the  fun- 
niest entertainment  in  the  world,  excepting 
"Charley's  Aunt."  Fine  evenings,  when  my 
brain  cells  were  closed  for  repairs  and  I  was 
weary  of  musical  comedy,  I  used  to  go  over  to 
Eighth  Avenue  and  see  "Why  Women  Sin"  and 
"A  Working  Girl's  Wrongs."  I  found  that  our 
class  is  responsible  alike  for  the  sins  and  the 
wrongs;  that  gentility  is  a  thing  to  move  virtu- 
ous burglars,  comic  green  grocers  and  other  hon- 
est men  and  women  to  a  passion  of  righteous  in- 
dignation. "I  was  ne'er  so  thrummed  since  I 
was  gentleman",  wrote  Thomas  Dekker  in  an 
ancient  comedy  of  unprintable  title,  and  it  is  my 
opinion  that  he  penned  the  line  after  seeing  his 
kind  through  the  astigmatic  glasses  of  Theodore 

423 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

Kremer.  Small  wonder,  indeed !  On  Eighth 
Avenue,  in  the  old  days,  everyone  sufficiently 
prosperous  to  be  opposed  to  an  income  tax  wore 
a  silk  hat  and  lived  in  a  "mansion."  Apparently 
"mansions"  were  not  places  in  which  privacy 
was  to  be  had,  since  the  Eighth  Avenue  million- 
aire invariably  came  out  into  the  street  when  he 
wanted  to  exhibit  "the  papers."  Eighth  Avenue 
millionaires  always  were  white-haired,  drank 
cold  tea  and  soda,  plotted  "dirty  work",  and  had 
closets  so  full  of  skeletons  that  any  physician 
might  have  mistaken  them  for  anatomical  mu- 
seums. "Little  children",  I  used  to  say  to  the 
progeny  of  a  friend  of  mine,  "when  you  grow 
up  be  careful  not  to  be  an  Eighth  Avenue  mil- 
lionaire." 

The  smart  set  have  rather  a  hard  time  of  it 
on  any  stage,  and,  for  that  matter,  so  does  the 
author  who  dallies  with  the  subject.  If  there  is 
one  thing  in  which  the  dramatic  grand  monde 
are  lucky  it  is  their  servants.  Nowhere  else  un- 
der the  blue  canopy  of  heaven  are  such  perfectly 
trained  menials  as  one  sees  through  the  pros- 

424 


"Why  women  sin" 


THE  SMART  SET  ON  THE  STAGE 

cenium  arch.  They  would  make  the  fortune  of 
any  of  those  agencies  misnamed  "intelligence 
bureaus." 

I  already  have  commented  on  the  difficulties 
of  the  man  who  writes  drawing  room  drama.  I 
have  said  that,  if  he  has  a  stirring  story  to  tell, 
he  must  disguise  it.  On  the  other  hand,  if  it  be 
his  ambition  to  compose  comedies  of  manners, 
like  "The  Liars",  he  must  master  the  very  fine 
art  of  interesting  an  audience  for  two  hours 
without  actually  doing  anything;  of  making  a 
vacuum  shimmer.  The  people  in  such  society 
plays  must  talk  like  ordinary  people  who  have 
been  seeing  society  plays.  Their  dialogue  must 
be  cynical  and  clever,  and  just  a  bit  what  a  witty 
Frenchman  called  "sans  chemise."  A  society 
play  excellently  exemplifies  the  truth  of  the 
adage:  "Nothing  risque;  nothing  gained." 
Should  the  conversation  be  truly  bright  the  crit- 
ics may  be  counted  upon  to  observe  that  real 
people  never  talk  that  way;  but  it  is  better  to 
beard  the  critics  than  to  bore  the  audience.  If 
I  may  add  to  a  line  from  "Clothes" :  "Hell  and 

427 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS-FORE  AND  AFT 

the  stage  drawing  room  are  two  places  where 
there  are  no  stupid  people." 

It  is  no  easy  matter  for  the  average  play- 
wright to  reproduce  the  atmosphere  of  Fifth 
Avenue.  Many  of  the  nabobs  one  glimpses  in 
the  theatre  fall  about  three  hundred  and  sixty 
short  of  the  "four  hundred."  Every  second  com- 
edy of  manners  we  see  is  a  comedy  of  very  bad 
manners.  Men  born  with  gold  spoons  in  their 
mouths  find  it  hard  to  articulate,  and  few  of  our 
fashionable  families  produce  dramatists  who 
"speak  in  a  voice  that  fills  the  nation."  Only 
the  most  successful  of  the  craft  get  an  oppor- 
tunity to  study  society  at  first  hand.  Perhaps 
that  is  fortunate.  "The  drawback  to  realism", 
says  Wilton  Lackaye,  "is  the  fate  of  the  realist. 
If  he  goes  into  the  slums  he  becomes  base;  if 
he  goes  into  society  he  becomes  soprano."  The 
average  social  lion  being  the  sort  of  man  one 
could  push  over,  we  ought  to  be  glad  of  the 
barrier  between  the  pen,  which  only  writes,  and 
money,  which  talks.  Vigor  and  virility  are 
more  essential  to  good  drama  than  absolutely 

428 


THE  SMART  SET  ON  THE  STAGE 

faithful  atmosphere.  All  other  things  being 
equal,  the  individual  who  would  make  the  best 
pugilist  would  make  the  best  playwright. 

A  good  many  of  our  society  plays  are  marred 
by  gaucheries  of  a  serious  nature.  Glance  over 
your  mental  list  of  tea-cup  pieces.  Clyde  Fitch, 
who  rarely  offended  in  this  respect,  had  one  wo- 
man giving  orders  to  the  servants  of  another  wo- 
man in  "The  Truth."  Jack  Neville,  in  the  El- 
sie de  Wolfe  performance  of  "The  Way  of  the 
World",  whistled  merrily  while  waiting  in  her 
parlor  for  his  hostess.  True,  he  didn't  whistle 
very  noisily,  but  that  palliation  only  makes  one 
think  of  the  retort  courteous  supposed  to  have 
been  made  by  a  well-bred  woman  after  she  had 
complained  of  a  gentleman  who  whistled  in  her 
ball  room.  "It  was  very  low",  plead  the  gen- 
tleman. "It  was",  answered  the  lady;  "very 
low." 

Cynthia,  in  the  comedy  of  that  name,  re- 
ceived her  husband  while  the  hairdresser  and  the 
manicure  were  employed  with  her.  Dick  Craw- 
ford, in  "Caught  in  the  Rain",  tips  a  servant 

429 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

in  the  home  of  his  friend,  Mr.  Mason.  Every- 
body who  visits  Montgomery  Brewster  in  the 
first  act  of  "Brewster's  Millions"  comments 
most  vulgarly  on  that  hero's  newly  acquired 
wealth.  Richard  Burbank  in  "Clothes"  mis- 
takes Miss  Sherwood's  piano  for  a  hat  rack, 
while  that  lady  permits  herself  to  be  led  away 
from  a  dance  without  bidding  farewell  to  her 
hostess.  In  "The  House  of  Mirth",  a  sandless- 
souled  hero,  named  Lawrence  Selden,  literally 
thrust  himself  past  a  protesting  servant  and  into 
the  rooms  of  Augustus  Trenor.  The  young  wo- 
man impersonated  by  Edna  May  in  "The  Catch 
of  the  Season"  was  given  tiffen  consisting  of  a 
hunk  of  bread  an  inch  thick  and  tea  in  a  cup  that 
bore  all  the  ear-marks  of  belonging  to  that  fam- 
ily of  unbreakable  things  that  are  used  in  the 
second  cabin  of  ocean  liners.  These,  of  course, 
are  "trifles  light  as  air",  but  what  shall  be  said 
of  Charles  Richman  in  dress  clothes  and  light 
boots  in  "Mrs.  Dane's  Defence",  of  Margaret 
Dale  in  decollette  and  walking  hat  in  "Delancy", 
and  of  Mrs.  Fiske's  laying  her  handkerchief  on 

430 


THE  SMART  SET  ON  THE  STAGE 

the  luncheon  table  in  "Becky  Sharp?"  Above 
all,  what  shall  be  said  of  the  gentleman  in  "The 
Triangle"  who  stabbed  his  better  half  with  a 
carving  knife  at  dinner.  I  may  be  ignorant  of 
what  I  seek  to  teach  and  quite  wrong  about  these 
other  faux  pas,  but  that  certainly  cannot  be  con- 
demned too  forcibly.     It  simply  isn't  donel 

"Popularity",  George  Cohan's  play  that  after- 
ward became  "The  Man  Who  Owns  Broad- 
way", was  a  perfect  mine  of  ill  breeding.  In  the 
first  place,  the  Fuller  drawing  room,  as  shown, 
was  a  flaring  red,  with  a  piano  on  which  the 
manufacturer's  name  was  painted  in  letters  two 
inches  high.  During  the  evening  there  were  sev- 
eral callers,  whom  the  Fullers  left  quite  alone  for 
a  period  of  fifteen  minutes.  The  butler  atoned 
for  this  rudeness  by  shaking  hands  with  one  of 
the  guests,  a  young  gentleman  unfortunately 
crossed  in  love,  and  expressing  sympathy  for 
him.  The  young  gentleman  said  he  was  much 
obliged.  The  climax  of  this  singular  exhibition 
was  reached  when  a  "matinee  idol",  dropping 
in  without  invitation  on  Papa  Fuller,  whom  he 

431 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE   AND  AFT 

had  never  met,  lit  a  cigar,  instructed  the  sympa- 
thetic butler  to  bring  him  spirituous  liquor,  and 
told  his  host  a  few  things  about  gentlemen  in 
general  and  the  host  himself  in  particular. 

The  familiarity  of  the  butler  in  "Popularity" 
was  as  nothing  to  the  behavior  of  the  servants 
in  "Forty-five  Minutes  From  Broadway",  where 
several  menials  seemed  to  subscribe  heartily  to 
Paul  Blouet's  dictum  that  "America  is  a  country 
in  which  every  man  is  as  good  as  his  neighbor 
and  a  damned  sight  better."  The  mother  in  the 
noisy  farce  of  "Julie  Bonbon"  who  objected  to 
having  her  son  marry  a  milliner  might  have  im- 
proved her  own  manners  in  any  millinery  shop 
on  Fifth  Avenue.  A  chambermaid  in  "Susan 
in  Search  of  a  Husband"  introduced  to  each  oth- 
er two  guests  of  her  hotel;  Vida  Phillimore  in 
"The  New  York  Idea"  received  in  her  boudoir 
a  nobleman  who  had  been  presented  to  her  only 
the  day  before;  Mrs.  O'Mara  addressed  her 
daughter  and  ignored  the  visitor  who  was  chat- 
ting with  her  in  "All-of-a-Sudden  Peggy."  The 
reception  room  revealed  in  "The  Daughters  of 

432 


"It  simply  isn't  done!" 


THE  SMART  SET  ON  THE  STAGE 

Men"  looked  like  the  interior  of  a  jewel  box,  and 
served  as  the  abiding  place  of  a  wonderful  col- 
lection of  amusingly  stiff-backed  men  and  wom- 
en, representing  the  smart  set  as,  at  that  time,  it 
was  imagined  by  Charles  Klein. 

Fortunately,  errors  of  taste  in  staging  society 
plays  become  fewer  and  less  conspicuous  every 
day.  They  are  practically  obsolete  now  in  the- 
aters like  the  Empire,  the  Lyceum,  the  Hudson, 
and  the  Belasco.  With  them  has  gone  the  time 
in  which  every  fashionable  apartment  was  fur- 
nished in  exactly  the  same  way  and  had  doors 
in  exactly  the  same  place.  The  producer  who 
"dresses"  a  stage  today  buys  precisely  as  though 
he  had  a  commission  to  "dress"  the  home  of  a 
wealthy  and  intelligent  client.  Under  these  cir- 
cumstances, it  is  particularly  fortunate  that  the 
comedy  of  manners  and  the  drama  of  the  draw- 
ing room  have  come  to  stay.  Cultured  people 
are  pleasant  companions  in  everyday  life,  and 
doubly  pleasant  when  they  have  been  idealized 
and  super-refined  for  library  or  theater.  We 
may  be  glad  of  the  evident  fact  that  plays  may 

435 


THE   FOOTLIGHTS— FORE  AND  AFT 

come  and  plays  may  go,  but  the  society  play  goes 
on  forever. 


436 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

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